


Revenant

by Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Early Work, F/M, Horror, M/M, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-29
Updated: 2000-07-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 70,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/pseuds/Rachael%20Sabotini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Watcher Clare Winge discovers Immortal Benny Carbassa in an asylum near Paris, she goes to Adam Pierson for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with MacGeorge

**Paris 1995**

The walkway shimmered in the streetlight, its cobbled surface slick with ice, footsteps echoing sharply in the winter night. _A few more steps to freedom,_ Benny told himself, glancing quickly over his shoulder. MacLeod's barge would be safe.

He practically dashed up the gangplank and swung round to the cabin door. Locked, of course, but that was of no matter. The judicious application of the right tools, and - snakkachink - the door swung open.

"Anybody home?" Benny called, sticking his head carefully around the door. He couldn't feel any Immortals nearby, but Mac had a lot a mortal friends, and you could never be too careful.

No answer. He slipped in and closed the door, collapsing back against it with a sigh of relief. It took a whole thirty seconds before he had the strength to pull himself upright and re-lock it; he really wasn't very good at runnin' anymore. At least he wouldn't have ta worry about Juneau's goons for a while; Mac practically squeaked when he walked. A pillar of the community, Duncan MacLeod. Made him a great man ta hide behind when things got rough.

Sauntering into the salon, he dropped his narrow-brimmed hat on a side table, making a quick survey of the barge's interior. The single large room was getting ta be MacLeod's trademark. Benny hadn't seen him live in anything other than a studio in quite a while, but the furnishings were a treasure trove. Looked like MacLeod put the ol' antique dealer line to good use for a while.

The barge shifted suddenly beneath his feet, and Benny momentarily panicked before he heard the sound of another boat passing by. Damn idiot had gotten too close to the barge and set the whole thing rocking. His heart pounding, Benny cast around for the most comfortable-looking spot he could find to crash on.

_Pretty cool,_ he decided, running his fingers along the buttery-soft leather couch as he flopped down, only to find himself popping right back up again. He was still too charged up to sit for very long. He wandered over to the far end of the room and stared at the large platform bed. _Does he need that much room to sleep?_ Benny hit himself in the forehead. _What am I thinkin'?_ Of course MacLeod needed that much room to play.

He wandered around the room some more, touching the rest of the furniture and examining a few small objets d'art, trying to guess the cost. _Hey, you never know when you might need to know where to get ahold of some of this stuff, right? Maybe Juneau would take some of this in trade._ And it wasn't like he was gonna steal it from MacLeod. Anything he wanted, he'd just talk the guy into giving it to him. Mac was always an easy touch. Good with kids and stuff.

Jade figurines, small vases, and one large rather elaborate bronze statue caught his eye, each of them worth some serious dough on the antiquities market, no doubt. _Mac always did have pretty good taste._ He picked up an intricately carved box and turned the small brass key to open it, finding pictures of a blond woman inside. He whistled. _Nice dish_. Mac knew how to pick 'em.

He set the box back where he'd found it and wandered up the opposite stairs into the small kitchen area. He needed to settle down. Maybe a beer would help. Mac usually kept the good stuff on hand. He rummaged around in the refrigerator and found an opened, partially-consumed bottle of white wine, three beers, and some condiments -- but it looked like the mayo was starting to mold. He tossed the jar and snagged a beer. Mac must have been out of town for a few months for the mayo to have gone off like that. At least he wouldn't have ta worry about Mac throwing him out. He tried to twist the top off the beer but finally had to search among the drawers for a bottle opener, irritated at the inconvenience. Why was the good stuff always so hard to take care of? Wasn't his fault Juneau's stuff never arrived.

Benny took off his jacket, loosened his tie and stretched out on the couch, experiencing only a small pang of guilt at appropriating the Highlander's space. After all, it wasn't as if Mac wouldn't have invited him to stay if he had been in town, right? And nobody would be able to find him here. Not that he really had anything to worry about. Juneau and his thugs would get tired of looking for him in a week or two. All he had to do was lay low, out of sight. With a sigh, he drifted off, reassuring thoughts floating around in his head.

Tweedle ... tweedle ... tweedle.

A strange caterwauling sound awakened him, and Benny twisted his head around trying to pinpoint the bizarre noise. _What on earth is that?_ He blinked, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but nothing looked familiar.

Tweedle ... tweedle ... tweedle.

The noise kept on chanting. "Just a sec," he yelled on general principle, still trying to place the noise and himself _. Oh, yeah. I'm on Mac's barge._

Tweedle

Jeez, it was loud. Whatever it was, it had to be right by his ear.

Tweedle ...

He fumbled around and found -- the phone. He picked it up just before the answering machine kicked on. "Hello?" he asked cautiously.

"Hello, Duncan." The voice was soft, low, almost hypnotizing in its effect. His mind finally turning on, Benny wasn't sure whether it was a guy or a gal on the line, but he could have kicked himself for answering it in the first place. The only people calling for MacLeod in the middle of the night would be people with problems, and he didn't need to have anything to do with one of the Highlander's strays.

"It's been a long, long time," the voice continued. "You probably don't even remember me, do you?" Laced with innuendo and intimacy, Benny suddenly thought of another reason why a woman might call.

_Mac, you dog. Picked up another babe have you?_ He cleared his throat, determined to explain that Mac wasn't around. "Uh, listen, I, uh"

"That's alright, Duncan. I understand." Benny felt himself melting as the voice breathed itself into his mind, holding him close, making him press the phone tight to his ear. "I wanted you to know that I have something you'll want." The voice became low and soft, like a caress. "Something very, very important. Something of immeasurable value."

Benny's brain stopped. _Something of immeasurable value_. Now, that was better than sex. A big enough deal just might get him out of hock with Juneau and give him a little stake on the side.

"Duncan?" the voice whispered, its seductiveness lost to Benny's gut-level greed. "Are you there? Are you interested?"

Sex or money, either way he was a winner. And right now, Benny wasn't sure which of the two he'd prefer. "Oh yeah, babe. I'm sure." It was a no-lose situation, as far as he was concerned.

"Good." The purr rumbled down the line and into Benny's groin. "I'd love to see you again. It's been so long."

"Yeah, sure, babe, whatever ya want." Benny found himself being even more agreeable than usual, racking it up to the thought of finally having his ship come in. _Right time, right place_ _for once. If it works out, Mac, I owe ya._ "Where do ya want ta meet?"

The address was on the seedier side of the left bank, but that was nothing new in Benny's world. Time wasn't even that bad -- they were to meet at 4:00 am. He looked at the clock. 3:30 -- that gave him half an hour to get to the place.

He whistled as he threw on his jacket, bouncing up the stairs to slick down his hair before he pulled on his hat. He stared at himself in the mirror a moment -- Lookin' good. He cocked his finger like a gun at his own reflection. _This deal was *made* for you._

He tucked his saber into his jacket and slipped up the stairs, checking up and down the Quay. It looked clear, so he stepped down the barge's gangplank and onto the street, wondering where he'd get a cab this time of night.

But this was Paris, after all, and there was a cab just up the street outside an open cafe. Taking it as a good omen, Benny whistled as he walked toward his chariot.

* * *

The cab ride to the old factory gave him too much time to think, and Benny's nerves were getting a serious workout. Sweat had soaked his armpits, dampening his suit even in the pre-dawn chill, while the phrase "immeasurable value" rang like a song in his head. He didn't even notice when the cab pulled away, leaving him standing in front of a darkened building littered with rubble and broken grass.

Since he couldn't feel anything, Benny assumed it was safe. No strange Immortals hanging out nearby. He tested the double doors, not really surprised to find them unlocked, and cautiously opened one side.

"Hello?" he called, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. No answer. He moved inside, letting the door close behind him with a silence-shattering thunk. No one came out, so Benny cautiously eased his way deeper into the building. He saw a light in an office off the corridor to the left and headed for it, figuring whoever it was he was supposed to meet would be there.

His shirt stuck to him; Benny tried to adjust himself so that he would look okay, but the fabric clung to him like a new skin. He shook it a bit, the chill better than the dampness, and finally gave up. "Hello?" he called again, finally entering the corridor itself. "Is anybody here?"

A scurry of rats, their claws scratching at the concrete floor, gave him his answer.

His heart pounded, and his hands shook like a bum with DTs, but the words "immeasurable value" controlled all his thoughts. _In for a penny, in for a pound_ , he thought to himself. Whatever the thing was, Benny knew he needed it *bad*.

He tried to make his steps quiet as he crept down the hall and edged into the doorway. The desk lamp was on in a medium sized office, but the rest of the space was all in shadow, and there was no one to be seen. He was relieved at the lack of Immortal presence. That meant that no matter what other threat might be lurking in the dark, they probably couldn't kill him. At least not permanently.

"Uh, hey," he called. "I'm here." There was a dry, rustling noise just beyond the edge of the light, and Benny thought he could just see a shadow move. A vision of a thousand rats sprang into his mind, their gleaming eyes outlining the something that he saw.

Benny swallowed, his hands trembling. There wasn't nothin' here that wasn't supposed to be. It was only a trick of the light.

"You're not MacLeod." The voice was as dry and cold as deep space; it sank into Benny's bones like a thick frost, chilling him from head to toes. "I wanted MacLeod."

"I'm his ... agent," Benny said, trying to project the self-assurance he did not feel. "He gave me authority to see whatever you've got."

"Did he, now?" That rasping, leaf-dry voice rustled closer, almost to the pool of real light. Benny tried as hard as he could to make something out of the shadow, but if anything, the seemed darker there. He couldn't even see the dust motes around it.

"Did he really?"

"Yeah. Really." Benny's shivered, he body jerking without conscious thought while sweat skidded down the back of his neck. He swallowed once and licked his lips, trying to put the feeling into perspective. "Uh, you don't happen to know a guy by the name of Andre Juneau, do you? If so, just tell him I, uh, I was gonna get back to him right away, but"

The darkness moved. That was odd. It wasn't something causing a shadow; it seemed to be the shadow itself that edged closer.

And closer.

Benny backed towards the door. This was gettin' too strange.

"Wait."

Benny froze. His muscles contracted and stuck him there as if he were made of concrete.

The man-sized, man-shaped shadow drifted closer, and Benny became aware of the lingering smell of dead leaves that surrounded it. Ah, that was the sound he hadn't been able to identify, the rustling noise. Not rats, but dead leaves.

Benny didn't like that idea any better.

"You know MacLeod."

Benny nodded vigorously, though he couldn't speak a word.

"You'll do, then. Show him a little taste of things to come."

The darkness and its soft rattling of dead leaves moved into the small circle of the desk lamp's illumination, but the light didn't seem to help much. It revealed an indistinct figure, shrouded in a dark cloak, seemingly carved from the night itself. The image dissolved as a black-gloved hand reached out, turned upward, palm open to reveal a folded cloth.

"Take it." The voice commanded.

Hesitantly, Benny reached out and took the blue and green plaid cloth, the icy-cold leather brushing his hand. Something small and hard lay wrapped within the bundle; he frowned as he tried to figure out what it could be.

"Remember this." The order snapped like the crack of ice after a winter storm. "MacLeod is mine." The darkness flowed toward Benny, like a river finding its path, the mask of shadows pulling away from around it. "As he took the one I loved, so I will take the one he loves. As I watched, so will he, and he will know the helplessness I felt. Tell him." The voice drilled into Benny's brain, burning itself into his mind with a coldness worse than any heat Benny had every felt. "Tell him: I am Memory. I am Justice." The gloved hands moved up, slipping back the dark hood, revealing what had once been a woman's face. "I am Vengeance worse than Death, for Death releases us from pain. Like me, he will never have that blessing."

The words were heard, burned into his mind and memory, but it was the eyes and their vision of hell that finally cost Benny his sanity.

And he screamed ...

and screamed ...

and screamed ...

His voice melted into the rustling, skittering sound of rats.


	2. Chapter 2

**Seacouver 1997**

A dozen neckties lay scattered over the bed and chair as Duncan finally sorted out his two favorite ones. Elegant and conservative, the first had a rich, classical striping in shades of gray that gave it a 'school tie' feel. Duncan held it in his hand, looking at it and considering what it implied. This tie said 'solid and stable', 'a good credit risk', all the things a banker would approve of. The other one wasn't his usual style, or at least not the kind he wore anymore. Bold, with deep electric greens and blacks, it stood out rather than blending into the background, adding an aura of rakish confidence to an otherwise drab affair.

Duncan grimaced at himself, looking at his ties. He'd been alone too long, his ties reminding him of his own life in a way. He hadn't allowed himself to be bold in a long time, and with this thing with the Watchers... His stomach clenched, and Duncan shook his head to clear it, hating how he'd just walked away from the whole thing. Jacob Galati was dead, and Duncan still couldn't find it within himself to forgive them for that; maybe he never would.

But could he forgive his friends? That was the real question, wasn't it, and why he'd stayed away from Paris. Maybe Methos was still there...

The length of colorful silk draped across his hand caught his attention again, and he quickly pulled on the bolder of the two ties, tying a Windsor knot with neat efficiency. Methos had given this one to him the Christmas after Alexa's death. It had amused both of them at the time. _Where the hell are you now, Methos? And would I slug you or hug you if you came back?_

The thought kept recurring throughout the next few weeks, a sense of unfulfilled need that triggered a wanderlust. The last time he had seen Methos was in Paris, and there was nothing holding him in the States. Richie was on the road somewhere, testing his limits. Hopefully growing up. Hopefully keeping his head. His budding romance with Anne had sputtered and died, and there was nothing on the horizon in the relationship department. Not that he was seeking one. These days the Gathering had crowded out any space, emotional or otherwise, for serious relationships, especially with a mortal. And Spring was his favorite time of year in Paris. Maybe it was time.

* * *

His coffee was tepid and disgusting, but Methos needed the small residue of caffeine at the moment. Translating Aramaic liturgical texts may have been an interesting puzzle for the first few weeks, but at this point it was positively tedious. He just wanted to finish the job quickly and turn it back over to the monks who had contracted with him for his unique services. Putting the now empty cup down, he rested his long fingers on his keyboard and took a deep breath, forcing himself to concentrate, carefully building the next phrase in his mind. Just as his index finger was reaching for the first letter of the first word of the latest sentence, the whole context was shattered by the stupid mechanical voice of his computer.

"You've Got Mail!" it chirped brightly.

Methos closed his eyes and grimaced; he hated that voice. Why he never turned it off was beyond him. He opened his eyes and gave up on his work for the moment, using his mouse to open his mail program. Hmmm. This was a surprise. Something from cwinge@watch.org. He hadn't seen Clare Winge in, what, two years now? Long before Duncan MacLeod had entered his life.

Funny, that. Anno MacLeod.

He folded his arms as he stared at the computer, getting lost in the memories of her, rather than dwelling on thoughts of MacLeod. Mac's anger still hurt, but Clare -- Clare, beer in hand, decrying the pabulum that passed for psychology these days. That was a much better memory, much more soothing to the soul. Tipsy and yelling in her rough-edged voice, thick from the cigarette smoke of the bar. "Where is the new Jung? The new Rogers? Even a new Freud might be nice. At least we could stop talking about the damn inner child." He had laughed then, the whole group had laughed, and Clare had smiled, her face brightening. There had been a time -- back when they were students together -- when he had thought of dating her, but she had always seemed more interested in her research projects than anything else, so they'd just ended up fast friends.

Besides, 'Adam Pierson' had been a lot more timid back then. That Adam would never have even talked to Alexa, much less asked her out.

_Don't go there._

One more thought to avoid. Amazing how the memories kept ambushing him tonight. He'd thought himself safely lost in his work. He shifted in his chair and shut off those lines of thought, turning back to the mail message still blinking at him. Briefly, he wondered if she was still so fiercely interested in her research, now that she was in the Watchers. The pathology of serial killers had turned to the pathology of Immortals; it was an odd job, but necessary.

In fact, he had suggested the idea himself a few years after he had "officially" been recruited and had further suggested Clare Winge for the job. As far as he knew, she had never learned that he was the one who had submitted her name as a possible Watcher.

The unopened e-mail was still blinking at him, pulling him back to the present. He knew he shouldn't acknowledge the mail. He had told himself he was going to stay away from the Watchers, as well as Duncan MacLeod.

He hesitated as the light continued to blink. He hadn't necessarily decided he was going to stay away from Clare. There had almost been something between them, once. He had been hiding from the world at the time, but that was pre-MacLeod.

Methos measured his life much like historians marked the passages of eras. There were the pre-Immortal days -- he tried not to think about those too much. Then there were the pre-Horsemen, Horsemen, and post-Horseman periods. He had been in his Ennui period for centuries now, until he met MacLeod. Somehow, meeting the Scottish warrior had fundamentally altered his outlook on life. He wasn't sure if he was still in his MacLeod era, or in a new post-MacLeod era, given their recent difficulties

Damn Galati for what he had done. MacLeod's friendship had been precious to him, and the young Immortal had blown it to hell when he tried to take down the Watchers. When Methos and Joe had given them Jacob, MacLeod had nearly exploded, crying out that Methos had betrayed his entire race by handing an Immortal over for mortal vengeance. Immortals stick by their own.

_No, MacLeod. You stick by your own. The rest of us constantly betray each other._

_And how did I get off on that?_ Methos wondered distractedly, finally opening Clare's mail. It started out chatty and casual before evolving into a serious request for help: she thought she had discovered a missing Immortal at a local mental asylum. Methos whistled. Clare always found her way to the center of things. He started over and read pertinent parts of the note in more detail:

_Adam, I know you've left the Watchers, but I'm desperate. I have to figure out if this guy is Immortal or not -- and it's not like I can take a gun in there and shoot him, for Christ's sake -- though if I did, what would I do if he didn't return to life? I trust your eidetic memory more than the algorithms that the tech group would run. Any help you could give me would be appreciated._

Methos drummed his finger on the desk as he thought. He briefly considered that it might be just a ruse to get them back together socially, but dropped that thought almost immediately. _Get real,_ he chastised himself. _Don't flatter yourself. She just wants to tap into your elephantine memory banks._ But it might be worthwhile anyway. He just needed to stay out of perception range of this possible Immortal, who'd probably left a few marbles behind in his last Quickening. _What the hell. My social life has been for shit anyway recently. What can it hurt?_ He'd ask Clare to meet him for dinner and bring a photo, and in the meantime, he'd try to remember what it felt like to be 'Adam Pierson' before MacLeod got involved.

* * *

Clare parked her car and dashed across the grounds to the main entrance, slowing to a walk as she reached the front of the old stone building. She didn't want to appear too eager when there was so slight a chance that Adam would respond. Heck, she wasn't even sure she had the right e-mail address -- it could be waiting in her bounced message folder.

With a shrug, she turned toward the front door and keyed herself in, waiting impatiently for the light to turn green. She jerked on the handle as soon as the security screen cleared and dashed into the entryway. She nodded to the guard at the front desk and threaded her way down the richly carpeted corridors, practically humming to herself as she made her way to her broom-closet-sized office. Adam would come through.

Clare unlocked the door and tossed her purse on the metal desk, neatly avoiding the piles of files and papers waiting for her. Sinking into the large, green leather-backed chair, she immediately kicked off her heels. Ah, this was the life. Her own place, freedom from everyone peeking over her shoulder, a chance to do something right

She sat up and logged on to the network, checking her inbox to see if anyone had some new work for her to do or if Adam's response had come in. She couldn't help the surge of disappointment: a staff meeting notice, the monthly birthday bash announcement, three jokes, two Immortal deaths, and the normal harassment from accounting to get her expense reports turned in for month-end close. Nothing from Adam.

With a grimace, Clare turned back to her purse and started sorting through her receipts. She'd gathered a lot of parking and lunch expenses as well as a couple of hotel stays while traipsing through mental institutions this past month. Thank God she only had two more places to go -- maybe she should do those first? She still had a few days before the accounting deadline.

Stuffing the loose paper into an envelope with an internal promise to get back to them, Clare turned to the files still sitting on her desk. The first was the prize, the one that could make her career. Hard to believe he'd been in hospital for almost two years. She shook her head. They wouldn't have even known about this guy if not for Warren Cochrane and his amnesia.

That incident highlighted the possibility that a missing Immortal or two were stuck in some out-of-the-way insane asylum, and insane Immortals needed to be watched. Galati's vendetta had made everyone paranoid, and Clare and her group had been assigned to sort through John Doe mental cases and see what they could find; no one wanted to be caught unaware. And when one of her team had actually turned up that guy in Rumania, of all places -- Clare couldn't remember the Immortal's name, but he'd been a nasty piece of work, a cannibal who had dropped out of sight the century before -- the place had exploded. Every Immortal who 'disappeared' was suspected of being locked up somewhere, and that had lead to a sort of 'witch hunt' mentality. Everyone was reporting Immies popping out of the woodwork, and the whole thing was making Clare sick.

She refused to contribute to it; she wasn't going to report on this guy until she could pull an old report on him and know if he was one of the good ones or not. She didn't want anyone to be assigned to another Kalas without knowing what might happen.

There were days when Clare wondered if Horton might not have been right; some Immortals were simply abominations. It wasn't hard to understand. Centuries of constantly fighting for your life, killing to survive as you watched the mortals around you age and die. But not all of them were bad, and those that weren't were quite extraordinary, she was sure. She would dearly love to actually meet one and find out. But like the rest of the research staff, psychologists weren't sent out to do fieldwork unless special circumstances warranted it.

She stared back down at the folder and smiled to herself. She was pretty sure that if this guy were Immortal, he wasn't one of the bad ones; catatonia didn't seem to be the out that the worst ones would take, but she'd need to do an in-person interview to be sure. Her John Doe had carried a sword, and he was only a few hours' drive from Paris. She could go this afternoon and see if she could find out anything, but she wanted to wait until she heard from Adam first. If Adam went with her, he could tell her if he recognized the man or not. Adam Pierson had never made a bad call in the 'identify the Immie' game.

She shoved her sleeves up, baring her arms as she got down to the business of reviewing the information she had and creating a primary profile, temporarily putting the worry over 'identity confirmation' on the back burner.

Even as she performed the mundane task of filling out the necessary paperwork, Clare's mind filled with memories of Adam Pierson, Ph.D. Their friendship had been stronger than her other relationships back then, due at least in part to the fact that they never had 'the sex thing' to worry about -- at least that's what she told herself at the time. And certainly the lack of a 'relationship' had given her more time to work on her research, which was what really mattered after all. The rest of it was of secondary importance.

She had heard gossip among the Watchers that Adam had married a woman who had died within a year of their first meeting -- everyone called it a tragedy. Clare was still a bit hurt that he'd never wanted to talk about it; she had always been good at grief counseling. Or maybe it was just that she had secretly hoped he still thought of her as more than just a casual friend. She grinned. Being a psychologist meant never really trusting your own motivations.

And then he had left the organization

She put thoughts of Adam and his long, lean form, his full-body discussions, and snide sense of humor out of her mind. _Work first,_ she sighed. She really needed to get a life.

* * *

Her PC beeped at her, and she haphazardly clicked open her incoming mailbox, her mind still on the profile she was creating. Her pulse rate soared when she saw the note from Adam and instantly clicked it open to read:

_Clare!_

_My goodness, it's been a while. Sorry I can't go with you to see your patient; my latest project has me tied up for the next few days. Why don't we get together at the Café du Lac, next Tuesday at 6 p.m.? It would be nice to have dinner together and catch up on old times. And if you bring photos, I'll look them over and let you know what I think. I can't guarantee that I'll know the guy, but it is a possibility._

Clare smiled to herself. This was better than she had hoped. Help on her research _and_ a meeting that had all the trappings of an actual date! She got up and stretched, then hummed to herself on her way to the bathroom. Sometimes, life was good.

* * *

The hospital was like a lot of other hospitals Clare had visited in the course of her education. Even though most of her work now was in research, no trained psychologist could avoid stints in places like these. She had always hated them, the barren walls and echoing hallways reverberating with the cries and whimpers of the damned. She had never been able to shake that image, the patients crying out helplessly around her, asking for hope that she had no power to give. She'd felt like a demon sent to torment them. Eventually, her disgust had driven her even further into her books and profiles and notorious case studies, to the point that she hardly left her office unless she was told to go home.

The offer from the Watchers had come at a really good time, and she'd never thanked Adam for that. She hadn't even known he'd been the one to recommend her until Shapiro's witch hunts. Dawson's friendship with MacLeod had led to examinations of any Watcher he'd spent time with, which, in turn, focused on poor Adam, barely back from bereavement leave. And from there they'd gone on to any Watcher Adam had known, which is how she learned about her own recruitment.

She gritted her teeth at the memories, dismissing them so she could focus on the task at hand. They had had no right to do what they did, and fortunately, the new Watcher management team was more corporate than dictatorial, which meant the death penalty wasn't on the books anymore. Every Watcher she knew had given a sigh of relief when that happened, but Adam had already left.

Clare showed her identification and signed in, the controlled calm of the place already irritating her like a constant, high-pitched electrical whine. She passed patients sitting in the hallways and the day areas, and ignored them, just like most of the staff. Nobody got put in here if there was any other choice, if there were any family who cared or any hope of improvement. Most staff tried to be helpful, but they were distracted and overworked.

Despite the directions Reception had given her, Clare lost her way. One of the nurses finally directed her to a day room filled with ratty chairs and a few tables. The sun shone through dirt-streaked, barred windows on the twenty or so occupants. There was a vague, unpleasant smell in the air of disinfectant, medication, urine, and other, even less appetizing, odors.

The John Doe was parked in a chair facing the window. He was a small, pudgy man, unremarkable looking. His hair was long and stringy, his round cheeks darkened with a few days' stubble. The first thought that went through Clare's mind was that there was no way this man could be an Immortal. She had always thought she would know instantly when she met one, but John Doe here practically defined the word _ordinary_.

Not even the staff had that much interest in him any more, all of her questions about him receiving the standard 'it's in his admissions report' reply. And after two years, no one remembered the circumstances of how he'd been found or where. If he did turn out to be Immortal, she would have her work cut out for her investigating this thing. She looked at her extremely ordinary John Doe, and her whole chest heaved as she let out a huge sigh. _Best get on with it._ "Hi," she said gently, settling into the chair across from him. "My name is Clare."

His eyes were fixed on some distant point. His mouth twitched, but that was his only movement.

Clare leaned forward, lowering her voice. Might as well go for the big guns first. The guy was already institutionalized and near catatonic, she might have to startle him to get any reaction at all. If she could do it herself, without Adam's involvement, she would have quite the feather in her cap -- they'd all forget about who found Evan Caspari once she showed them her Immortal; she might even get a director's spot. Not to mention that the idea of telling Adam and watching his face light up held a certain appeal of its own.

"I know about you," she said softly. "I know about Immortals." She emphasized the last word, watching for a reaction. Nothing. The eyes were blank. Well, almost blank. There was a darkness there, but whether it was fear or hate or anger or pure terror, Clare couldn't really tell. But every iota of training and instinct she had told her that this man had been traumatized into this sorry state.

She stayed with him for almost an hour, talking, questioning, but she never received any indication that he was aware of her presence. Finally giving up, at least for the moment, she took some Polaroid pictures. She also took away copies of the intake reports on how he was found and took pictures of everything he had on him when he had been admitted. It was discouraging, and she started to think that the whole thing was a big waste of time. How could her sad, pathetic little John Doe possibly be an Immortal? He was barely human.

She sighed. At this rate, she was never going to get to meet an Immortal in person. If only she hadn't been out of town the day Duncan MacLeod had dropped in on the Watchers. Now _there_ was an Immortal she'd love to meet.

Still, the notes and photos were an excellent excuse to see Adam. Maybe her day wouldn't be a total loss. Her mood lightened considerably at the thought and at the distance she put between herself and John Doe's current place of residence.

* * *

The café was crowded, noisy, and filled with cigarette smoke. The haze from the bar was almost too thick to see through, but Methos spotted Clare the moment she came in the front door. He waved at her from the booth he'd picked out in the back; she shifted her pile of papers to one arm and waved back.

He thought about getting up and offering to help as she wound her way through the crowd, awkwardly juggling files and folders, but it looked like she had things marginally under control. He smiled brightly as she flopped down onto the bench across from him, her armful of papers sliding haphazardly towards the end of the oak table. As she groaned her relief at finally ridding herself of her burden, Methos signaled a waitress to bring them each a pint.

"Oh, that's better." Clare moaned reverently, curling her now shoeless feet underneath her on the bench seat. "Glad to get those things off."

"I take it it was a long day."

She nodded. "One of the worst. I hate hospitals."

Methos was silent a moment as a flicker of memory passed through his mind. _Alexa._ "So do I."

"Oh Christ, Adam. I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"I know." Maybe this had been a bad idea after all. He cleared his throat and pulled the pile toward him. "So, what do you have for me?"

Clare bit her lip, and Methos tried not to smile. She always did that when she felt stressed.

"Not much, I'm afraid. No response to the word 'Immortal' or 'Quickening.' He just sat there catatonic the whole time. If he is an Immortal, I can't imagine what must have happened to make him stop reacting like that."

Methos opened the first set of notes and looked though the intake report. "Could have been anything, you know. Flood. Earthquake. Fire. Dog's death. Some sort of important loss." He scanned the report as he talked -- nothing unusual from what he could see -- then closed the file and set it aside. "You mentioned pictures?"

Clare was a little stunned at his lack of interest in the reams of paper she'd so painstakingly assembled, and it took her a moment to find what he'd asked for. "Photos. Right." She dug into her purse and pulled out a brown 4x5 clasp envelope. "Everything's in here."

He quickly slid the dozen photos from the envelope and laid them out on the table like a deck of cards. He didn't even notice the beer arrive, Clare's "thanks" barely registering in his mind.

Four pictures of the man -- two in profile and two dead-on -- a picture of the sword, his clothing, and some belongings. Methos picked up the one that showed a scrap of cloth and a button and held it under the light. His breath caught, and he thought he might drop the picture from his suddenly numb hands as he recognized the tartan of the Clan MacLeod.

 _Oh, Duncan. What have you gotten yourself into this time?_ Now that he knew where in his personal memory banks to rummage, Methos picked up one of the full-face pictures and tried to think who it might be. He sorted through every one of MacLeod's friends that he could recall and finally came up with an answer.

"Carbassa," he announced. He set the picture down in front of Clare. "The man's name is Benny Carbassa, and yes, he is an Immortal."

Clare's eyes were as wide as saucers. "Oh, wow." She sat back in the booth, stunned. "I never expected ... that is ..." She blushed. They both knew that anything she said now would sound like a very backhanded compliment.

"That's okay," Methos said with a small lift of one shoulder and Adam's familiar self-deprecating smile. "A person's got to be useful for something. It's a gift." _One that's kept me alive for a long while._

Questions overflowed her mind and poured out of Clare's mouth in a rush. "Who is he? Where is he from? How old is he? What was he doing that might've caused this? Do you--"

He waved a long-fingered hand in front of her face, stemming the flood. "Whoa! Slow down, Clare. I'm not the International Watcher Archives. I only know who he is because I've read the MacLeod Chronicles and remember him." _Well, that and the stories Mac's told._ "Benny's just some low-life scum that Mac--" Methos caught himself in the slip and tried to switch gears. He hadn't played this game in a while now and was clearly out of practice. "That Duncan MacLeod ran into back in the 1920's in the States." He finally noticed the new beer sitting next to him and took a good swallow, relishing the wetness. "Why the Highlander puts up with him, I don't know, but MacLeod does tend to adopt people. It's like he's some kind of one-man Immortal orphanage."

He hunkered down against the back of the booth and tried not to think about how Mac had adopted him. Even now, he still would have made the same choice, trading Galati for MacLeod. Mac was just going to have to learn to live with the fact that some people valued his life more highly than he did.

"Benny Carbassa," Clare pulled her notebook from among all her papers and carefully recorded the name. "Duncan MacLeod's friend? Do you suppose he'd know what happened?"

Her voice sounded higher, tinged with a lilt of excitement, like a sixteen-year-old talking about a rock star. Methos nearly groaned aloud. How did this happen? Mac wasn't even here. Methos wanted to pound his head against the wall; he'd always taken Clare for a sensible girl, yet here she was, fantasizing about meeting the legendary 'Highlander'.

He found himself grinding his teeth as he tried to squash the anticipatory gleam in her eye, feeling a little proprietary as he did so. Mac and Clare were both his friends; there was no need for her to sound so avaricious about meeting him. "I doubt it. I don't think he's seen the man in years." Benny had never shown up in the time he'd been around."And if MacLeod had known Carbassa was in a mental institution, I think he would have done something. Tried to help." _Like he always does._ Methos shrugged. "At least that would be consistent with what I've read about him," he added carefully.

"Meeting him would be incredible," Clare said softly.

Mild, amused irritation gave way to sheer exasperation as the woman's face drifted into a soft, dreamy expression. She had it bad. He knew Mac often affected women like that -- Men, too, for that matter, those that were 'that way' inclined, along with a few that weren't -- but it was incredibly annoying to find Clare, the research queen, ensorcelled by his charms when MacLeod wasn't even there. He briefly wondered what it would be like going through life looking like something handcrafted by the gods. He snorted. _Must be the big doe eyes and the chivalric attitude._

He smiled to himself; the 'big doe eyes and chivalric attitude' got to him, sometimes, as well. Mac could be incredibly charming when he wanted, like the time he'd talked Methos into faking a fight with Robert de Valicourt. _Whatever works,_ he thought. _We all use whatever tools come to hand._

"Yeah, right," Methos finally muttered in pseudo-agreement. "Tell you what, his Watcher is Joe Dawson, but you probably knew that." Everybody knew who Joe Dawson was -- although he wasn't Immortal, he was almost as famous as MacLeod. Regional Director of the Northwest Territories, bluesman, and the only Watcher known to have become so close to his Immortal that the organization put him on trial. Joe nearly died for betraying his oath not to interfere, only to have both Methos and MacLeod step in to save his life. Only, Mac got all the credit.

The event had nearly torn the Watchers apart, not to mention the friendship between Methos, Duncan, and Joe. Methos hadn't talked to either of them since taking off after the incident.He glanced at the pictures spread out in front of him and Benny's expressionless face stared back.

_Time to reach out and touch someone, old man._

He scooped up the paperwork and the photos and left them in a pile in front of him. "Joe's a friend of mine. Why don't I pass this information on to him and see what he wants to do with it?"

"Oh, I can call him!" Clare stood half-way and pulled the paperwork onto her side of the table. "I haven't ever had a reason to actually talk with Mr. Dawson. I've heard he's got some great stories to tell."

 _Mr. Dawson._ Adam tried not to smirk _. Joe would love to hear you say that. And what am I, chopped liver?_ He let her take the pile of papers, but kept one of the photos of Benny, slipping the picture into his coat pocket."That's okay," he said, rising and leaving several bills on the table. "I was going to call him anyway." _Oh, yeah, I was gonna call him any day now._

"Adam, this is _my_ case! What the hell are you doing?" Clare protested, only to fall into total silence as Adam leaned across the table and quickly, shyly kissed her cheek.

He surprised himself by the action. He could have lied to himself that it was just to distract her, to take the initiative out of her hands. But some part of him wanted to do it, needed the sense of contact with another human being. Somehow, lately, he needed ties to something. He'd been adrift for too long. "It was great to see you again, Clare," he rushed ahead, making a quick exit. "I'll give you a call as soon as I hear anything. Gotta go." He leaned over and gave her another peck on the cheek before his long legs carried him into the bar's evening crowd and out of sight; and he could feel her eyes following him every step of the way.


	3. Chapter 3

His Adam persona melted as soon as he left the café, the picture of Benny in the hospital ward more than a little unsettling. At some point in his life, he had embraced most of the categories of the typical 'personality disorder.' Methos' world swayed slightly, his thoughts forming a rhythm as he walked. _Obsession, compulsion, amnesia, catatonia. Sadism, masochism, manic-depression. Monomania, schizophrenia, multiple-personality disorder. Delusions of grandeur._

Sanity wasn't exactly a survival trait when dealing with the Game. Nor was friendship, for that matter, and yet MacLeod had plenty to pass around.

When the deal over Galati had gone sour, Mac had torn into him about being a servant of two masters. Methos still had trouble understanding what Mac had been trying to say. Yes, Galati died -- but that was better than MacLeod, right? Unfortunately, Mac couldn't see it that way. He always put others' lives first. Not a good survival technique.

_Face it, old man. You haven't met anyone like him in centuries, and just knowing he's there is worth any number of other Immortal deaths._

MacLeod's passion for living had been the kick-in-the-ass he'd needed to pull himself out of his Ennui period. Without MacLeod, Methos would either have stayed a minor researcher with the Watchers, or he would have already embraced the death that was constantly on offer. If he hadn't met MacLeod, Kalas might well have taken his head.

But there was more to their relationship than 'right time, right place' could explain. MacLeod filled a need that Methos had forgotten existed; MacLeod was his friend. No matter how long he lived among mortals, no matter how close he got to any of them, it was impossible for them to completely grasp the enormity of unending life -- and a life in a battle zone, at that.

With MacLeod, there was no need for those sorts of explanations; Mac just knew. He, too, had spent centuries being hunted for who and what he was, in a way that few other beings could understand. And the fact that the Highlander hadn't lost his humanity in the process, but had actually come to respect mortals even more as the centuries passed, there was a freshness to the idea that Methos found appealing. Like ice-cold water on a hot day, or hot tea during a rainstorm, or a roaring fire on mid-winter's night, MacLeod just fit, stirring his thoughts and his dreams in ways that Methos thought gone forever. He loved simply being around the man; it made him feel warm.

His pacing slowed, then stopped. He found himself on one of the stone bridges near his apartment, staring at the slow-moving water. Being outside of that warmth was slowly killing him. He needed to talk to MacLeod, mend their friendship somehow, say it in such a way that Mac would have to listen. Whatever it took, he would do; Methos would find a way back inside.

He picked up his pace as he headed back to his apartment. First, he'd call Joe in Seacouver and make his apologies for running out on him like that. Then he'd explain about Benny and ask Joe to break it to MacLeod. That would be a big enough step for tonight.

Practically whistling at the thought of lazing around in the Highlander's presence again, Methos unlocked his door and headed straight for the phone.

* * *

He should have known the conversation would not go well. Joe was still pissed over what had happened, and he exploded when Methos asked about MacLeod. "How the hell should I know where he is? It's not like I'm Mac's Watcher anymore, you know."

"What?" Methos was dumbstruck. After twenty years, they first tried to kill the man and then they handed his Immortal to someone else. The organization just kept getting worse.

"Yeah, well," Methos could practically see Joe tucking one hand under the arm of the one that held the phone, curling around it so no one could see him talk. "I took a leave of absence, same as you. I just need to think about some of this crap."

Methos took a while trying to decide what to say next. "Have you decided anything yet?"

The response was low and strong, without an instant's hesitation. "Yeah, I have." That was Joe all over. Once he decided something, he never looked back. "I'm leaving."

Methos was a bit stunned by the thought -- was he so out of practice with reading people that everything took him by surprise tonight? The Watchers had been a part of Joe's life for so long, it would cut out a bit of his heart to leave. Yet some part of Methos warmed to the thought that Joe could have loyalty like that, to sacrifice something so much a part of himself to keep his friendship with MacLeod. He didn't think he could ever have the courage to do something like that, not ever again.

This time Joe's answer was belligerent, like he was reading Methos' thoughts. "That's right. You got a problem with that?"

"No, Joe. Not me. No problem." He paused a moment as the enormity of what Joe had said hit him again, and his voice softened in response. "So what are you going to do instead?"

"Run a bar, I think. Start pulling in some new acts. Get a chance to know my friends better without the damn oath coming between us." He paused. "What about you? What are you doin'?"

"Oh, you know, this and that. Translations, mostly. Figuring out where to start a new life. And it looks like an old friend of MacLeod's may have turned up here in a mental hospital. Figured he would want to know."

"An old friend?" Joe asked. "How old?"

"Benny Carbassa."

"That low life? We lost track of him a couple of years ago. He was being chased by some European crime cartel, and we assumed he ended up in cement shoes at the bottom of the Seine." Joe's low chuckle rumbled over the phone. "Well, I suppose if you wandered over to the airport tomorrow around 11:00 a.m. - SAS 563 - you might just run into a tall guy with a pony tail."

Methos couldn't resist the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Thought you said you didn't know where he was, Dawson."

"Yeah, well. I keep my ear close to the ground, and I still have a few contacts. Besides, the Watchers are determined to keep a very close eye on your Highland friend."

"I'm not sure he's _my_ Highland friend anymore, Joe. Not after what happened."

"I know Mac can be hard on people he thinks violated his trust. But he's also hurting right now. He's lost just about everybody he cares about. I think he needs someone to reach out to him."

"Yeah, and I'm always the one who has to go to him, right? It's the great Highland warrior's pride at stake after all, isn't it?" Methos couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

There was a small pause on the line. "The Watchers did try to kill him, remember? And Mac just doesn't think of his own life as worth trading for a friend's." Joe sighed. "I knew that when we set Galati up. I was just blind and stupid and naive enough to think Shapiro would keep his word and not kill him." His voice turned accusatory. "But you knew he would, didn't you? You think of Mac as judgmental and rigid, but you made your own judgment call about who was worthy and who wasn't. Didn't you?"

For once Methos couldn't think of a pithy comeback. Joe had him dead-to-rights; he had wanted MacLeod to live and couldn't have cared less if Galati died. He often talked about Mac's "moral rigidity", but just how rigid was Methos' own judgment? Mac, at least, worried through a problem, deciding which course of action was best. For Methos it was always too terribly clear _. That which helps me survive is good, that which does not is bad._ And he was applying that same cut-and-dried criteria to the friends in Mac's life as well. The people that help him survive are good, and those that would kill him -- either by direct action or inaction -- were bad.

So, what did that make him? Good or bad for MacLeod? He shook his head and tried to clear his jumbled thoughts. "I'll have to get back to you on that one, Joe. Maybe after I talk with MacLeod."

"Yeah, well, don't be a stranger."

"I'll try." Methos hung up the phone, slid onto his couch, propped his feet up, and thought.

* * *

Going through customs was always irritating. Long lines at passport check, slow crowds milling purposelessly in the baggage area while they waited to get into customs check, followed by the inevitable questions about his sword. One of these days, he was going to have to figure out a better way -- at least with two households, he never had to carry that much baggage with him. He eyed the family ahead of him impatiently, their two carts and dozen pieces of luggage testament to the importance of their 'European Vacation.' The teenagers already looked bored while Dad talked to the customs agent; Duncan figured two weeks before they drove their parents mad.

At last it was his turn to answer the questions: no meat, no cheese, business, and then the long lines to get out of the customs area and so he could pile his possessions on the conveyer belt and pick them up again in baggage claim.

 _Who invented this system?_ he thought, for perhaps the thousandth time, right before the feeling of another Immortal's signature ran its fingers over his spine. Duncan looked around but saw no one looking at him; other passengers passed him without thought as they loaded their luggage onto the moving belt.

Duncan's eyebrows knit in thought. Whoever it was had to be outside customs, just beyond the glass doors and out in the main waiting area, otherwise Duncan would have sensed them before now. Gritting his teeth, he set his bag and his case containing the katana onto the conveyer, watching as it made its way down to baggage claim. Hopefully, whoever waited for him had had to check their weapon as well in order to pass the security screen.

He swung out the double doors; Methos stood there waiting for him, and Duncan's breath caught at the sight. A thousand conflicting thoughts and images ran through his mind, whirling and burning together so quickly he could not identify any single one. Slowly, the cacophony quieted, leaving Duncan with only two -- a paper-thin anger covering a deeper sense of joy that Methos was still alive.

Methos simply stood there staring back at him, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his long woolen coat, shoulders hunched, the connection between them as sharp as broken glass. Duncan could feel the tension he held in his muscles reflected back at him by the tension in Methos' eyes, each one rooted to their own spot.

God, it was good to see him again. With a small smile, Duncan stepped toward Methos at the same time that Methos stepped toward him. They met in the middle of the room, the rest of the world slipping around them, like rocks in a stream. That somehow Methos knew, that he simply appeared when he was needed, seemed perfectly natural. Duncan laid his hand on Methos' arm. "Thanks for coming to get me."

Methos looked different. Not thinner, exactly, that would be difficult to do on a frame that had no flesh to spare. There was just an unusual tension to his normally languid movements. Methos wouldn't look at him, his voice soft as he spoke. "You might not like the reason why."

 _Damn._ A rush of cold chills ran across Duncan's shoulders as he paled, dropped his arm, and turned away, slowly walking toward the baggage claim area. "Who is it?" Duncan willed himself to remain calm, not really noticing as Methos fell in beside him, waiting for news. It would have to be either Amanda or Richie; Methos or Joe would want to give him the news personally.

Methos stepped in front of him, stopping his progress. "That's not what I meant." A wave of relief washed over him as Methos' eyes searched his face for something, and with a start, Duncan realized that Methos was looking for some sign of forgiveness. He clenched his jaw and stared back; Jacob's death still lay between them. He was not about to forget that.

The warm hazel eyes turned to ice, and Methos looked away. "I found someone."

Duncan's heart lurched; he licked his lips and tried to force his voice to sound normal, though his mind screamed at him that it was too soon after Alexa. "Who is she?"

"He," Methos corrected, momentarily distracted as he made his way onto the escalator. "Who is he."

Duncan wondered if Immortals could die of shock. "I'm very happy for you."

"What?" Startled, Methos looked up at him; a bright grin broke out at what he saw. "I didn't mean it that way, Mac. I found an old friend of yours who's been missing -- Benny Carbassa. He's in an institution outside of town. I thought I could take you there later, and we could see what we could do about getting him out."

Duncan felt an odd sense of relief at having misunderstood what Methos meant. It wasn't that he didn't wish Methos a world of happiness, but Alexa's death had really torn Methos up. Duncan had ended up spending the week before the funeral with him, back in Seacouver, sorting through Alexa's things. He seemed so shattered by her death, not the inscrutable 5,000 year old Immortal at all, but simply a man dealing with his grief and working through his pain. The idea that Methos had fallen for someone else like that, so deeply, so quickly, made Duncan feel...he really didn't know how he felt. He did know he didn't want to see Methos hurt again. He had hoped -- seeing Methos here at the airport -- that Methos wanted a chance to re-build their friendship as badly as Duncan did. Methos having a lover...well, lovers take time and energy and passion, and there would have been little time left for Duncan Macleod. So, he reluctantly admitted to himself, maybe part of his relief was that Methos would not be distracted and would therefore be able to spend time with him.

They stepped off the escalator and waited by baggage claim, leaning against the back wall while they waited for the conveyer belt to start, shoulders barely touching one another. Duncan had to smile. In the ten minutes since he'd seen Methos, his life had been folded and re-folded twenty different times, just the way it always seemed to do around the other Immortal. He watched his bag drop, then went and picked up the katana's case. Maybe he should just admit he wasn't in charge of his own life whenever Methos was around. "You still have the Volvo?"

Methos dangled the keys in front of him, amusement ingrained in his voice. "Safety first."

With a snort, Duncan followed him to the car.

* * *

The silence between them was distinctly strained as Methos made it out of the maze of the parking lot and onto the highway towards Paris. "So, how did you hear about Benny?" Mac asked casually. "I didn't even know you knew the guy, much less cared."

Methos shrugged. "What makes you think I care?" He glanced over. Mac's face had frozen over once more. "One of the Watchers they had looking for Immortals in institutions stumbled across a likely candidate. She contacted me. I knew her from my Oxford days. At least those from this century. Anyway, she figured I'd be quicker than the eons of time and miles of bureaucratic bullshit you have to go through to access the Watcher database these days."

"And you are a regular walking Immortal encyclopedia, no doubt."

"Hey, it's kept me alive for a long, long time."

"The perfect Watcher. How fortunate for them."

Methos worked at tamping down his rising irritation at Mac's hostile attitude. After all, it was no more than what he had expected. "Not so fortunate, really. I'm not in the Watchers anymore."

Mac looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since they had gotten in the car. "Oh?" he said carefully.

"Neither is Joe."

"Well." Mac let a pause go by while he digested that information. "What are you going to do now? What's he going to do? The Watchers were his life."

"I didn't know you cared."

Mac shot him a hard look. "I care, Methos," he answered quietly. "I've always cared. But it's dangerous for him to involve himself in my life. I know we occupy the same planet, but we live in different worlds. If nothing else, the last few years have taught me that. Too many have died."

"Us versus them?" Methos commented with a twist to his mouth.

"Only if they insist on it." Mac sounded bitter. "Look, we can't change what happened. I don't want to fight about it, and I have too few friends left to throw them away when we disagree." He stopped for a minute, then went on. "But it wasn't up to you to trade Jacob's life for mine. He was my friend. A good friend."

Methos drove in silence for a long while, finally pulling up beside the barge on the Quay de la Tournelle. They sat for a minute, watching the busy river traffic move up and down the waterway.

"I'm your friend, too, I hope, MacLeod." Methos finally spoke into the long silence. "And I have too few of them to throw them away." He turned and met Mac's hard stare. "Or to allow them to throw themselves away."

Mac was the first to turn away as he got out of the car and pulled his bags from the back seat. Nothing had really been resolved. Methos had implied that he'd do the same thing again, and Mac didn't want to challenge him. Didn't want to face losing someone else. Especially Methos. Sometimes all those principles he lived by were a real pain.

Mac turned. Methos was still sitting in the car.

"Are you coming?" he asked, cocking his head toward the barge with his most endearing smile and the raise of an eyebrow.

 _Son of a bitch_ , Methos thought. _He could charm the horns off Satan himself._

* * *

Methos briefly described how he had identified Benny Carbassa as he snagged a beer from a nearly empty refrigerator, and Mac unpacked his bags.

"He had a piece of MacLeod tartan?" Mac asked curiously.

"And an old button. All his identification had been stripped, but whoever did it left his sword." He leaned up against the door at the top of the stair to the galley. It felt good to be back, even if the relationship was strained. At least Mac hadn't rejected him entirely. In giving him an excuse to reestablish contact with MacLeod, poor old Benny had at last served some useful purpose in his life. Methos knew the thought wasn't exactly charitable, but he didn't really care. MacLeod had enough of that for both of them.

Mac shook his head as he put away the last of his clothes. "Benny always manages to get himself in a mess of one kind or another, but to go catatonic? That just doesn't happen to us unless there's some terrible emotional trauma, and well, frankly Benny is not exactly prone to deep emotions of _any_ kind." He put away his duffel bag and pulled the scotch out of the bar, pouring a double shot into a glass. "Except greed, maybe."

"Well, I guess I better go see him," he sighed. "Although I sure as hell don't know what I can do. Maybe move him to a better facility or something. I'm no psychiatrist."

Methos watched as an obvious and expected parade of guilt and regret marched across his friend's face. The best Immortal psychiatrist had been Sean Burns, and Sean was dead, killed by Mac's hand. Hardly a day went by, he knew, that Mac didn't suffer the pain of remembrance of his own madness.

"Hey, you must be tired. It's a long trip from Seacouver. I'll get out of your hair." Methos offered.

"Wait!" Mac's voice sounded almost harsh. "How about dinner?" he said more gently. "All I've had is airplane food for the past 16 hours. And you can tell me about this Watcher psychologist friend of yours."

Methos hesitated, already halfway to the door. He wanted to spend more time with his friend, and the prospect of another long evening alone in his apartment with his journals was a depressing alternative. But he really didn't want to put up with any more "attitude" from MacLeod about Galati.

He looked back, and that was his undoing. Mac looked so hopeful, so open, so... _shit. Why am I such a sucker for that "look"?_ Methos wondered.

"Okay," he answered, "as long as we don't go to one of those places where everything has five sauces on it and how it's arranged on the plate is more important than how it tastes. How about that Chinese place on Germaine?"

"Hong Foy's?" Mac sputtered as he grabbed his jacket. "I wasn't aware you were into fried cockroach." The conversation segued comfortably into bantering and jokes, both of them relieved to drop the subject of the Watchers and Jacob Galati.


	4. Chapter 4

Daylight sprinted through the rows of apartment buildings, leaving stonework and alleyways painted with a golden glow, like the words left by a here and gone graffiti artist. It was an older residential area, teaming with young families and singles finding their first flat, plus a few older couples who never seemed to have moved. Methos caught a few words in Spanish, Vietnamese, and Pakistani as he drove through; Clare's neighborhood seemed be more of a 'melting pot' than he would have thought. Few Parisian natives stood waiting to cross the street, and even from inside the car, Methos could practically feel their disdain for the rest of the community. The diversity of the people and their attitudes was one of the things that made Paris so interesting and gave him a reason to always return -- even before Duncan MacLeod.

Through some miracle, Methos found a parking space right in front of Clare's building; he honked his horn and waited patiently until she emerged, watching the people pass by. He and Duncan had agreed to meet at the hospital so there would be no possibility that the depth of Duncan and "Adam's" friendship would be given away during the car ride.

He looked back over at the building's entrance; Clare was awkwardly juggling her usual burden of notebooks, backpack, purse, and coat. She dropped a couple of items in the twenty feet to the car, and when she stopped to pick them up, she dropped something else. Methos smiled. Clare had always been dropping things and tripping over her feet back at Oxford. It was comforting to see that she had not changed that much.  
He lowered the passenger side window. "Need some help?" he called, watching the third group of people pass by without offering to lend a hand. He could be a little more polite, at least for Clare. Duncan he would have left on his own. But Duncan was rarely ungraceful.

"No! No," she said breathlessly, her cheeks red and flushed, obviously embarrassed at her own clumsiness.

From inside the car, Methos smiled indulgently and shook his head, tapping his hands on the steering wheel while he waited for her to finishing piling her stuff together. Clare wasn't really clumsy, she just always had her mind on something other than where her feet and hands needed to be. She kept vowing to pay attention, but there were always so many more interesting things to think about. He empathized with the thought.

Finally, everything in one neat pile, Clare opened the rear passenger door of the battered old Volvo and dumped her backpack and research materials inside. She closed the door, climbed into the front seat, and settled down with a sigh.

Methos had put the car in gear to pull away from the curb when he was stopped by a yelp from his passenger.

"Wait!" she cried. "Oh, shit, just a sec." She was out of the car in an instant and dashed into her apartment building. A few minutes later she was out again, a cardboard box in her hands, which was unceremoniously dumped onto the pile in the back seat and the door slammed, rattling the Volvo. She breathlessly plunked herself back in place and shut the door. "Lunch!" she said in answer to his curious gaze. "It's a long trip, and I thought it would be nice if we had a little snack on the way."

Methos nodded slightly, wondering what she was up to. He'd thought she'd be upset over the way he'd usurped her authority on this case -- he'd even planned a nice, placating speech to sooth her ruffled ego if it was required -- but a picnic lunch? He pulled out onto the road. Yes, it was a wonderful day for it, but really, weren't they supposed to be checking on Benny? Methos sighed. He really hated the way he suspected everyone's motivations...some days he wished he could trust the world, like MacLeod.

* * *

   
Clare's little picnic was not so little after all, having more the flavor of a catered affair. If good food mellowed bad conversation, Methos despaired at what they would discuss once the bread, meat, cheese, wine, and chocolate raspberry cheesecake had all been consumed. Nevertheless, he attacked the food with a will, not wanting Clare to think her efforts had gone to waste. He didn't think he could move once they were done.

"This is nice, isn't it?" Clare sprawled out next to him, their heads almost touching in the warm grass. Methos nodded and sighed, not wanting to get on with the rest of the day. It was nice not to have to think for a bit, to bask in the very human and oddly comforting tension of Clare's companionship, so different from the tension he felt around MacLeod. His only concern at the moment was why Clare was trying to butter him up. Did she want to know more about Benny? Joe? Or what had really happened with Galati? He had no idea what she wanted. Maybe some information about some other Immortal who had grabbed her attention --

"What's he like?"

Like, say, the famous and irresistibly romantic Duncan MacLeod?

Methos felt like he'd slammed into a brick wall. He levered himself onto his elbows so he could look down at her. "Clare, you don't mean to say that that's what this picnic is about? You want to hear MacLeod stories?" He shook his head, the butterflies in his stomach finally settling down now that he knew what he faced. "It doesn't seem like you."

"Adam... I'm sorry, but how would you know? Just how would you really know?" Clare sounded bitter, and her face had lost its light-heartedness, leaving behind an aching sort of charm. "You haven't exactly spent a lot of time around me these past three years, have you?" She bit at her lip and looked away. "I thought I was your friend, but you stopped talking to me the moment I joined the Watchers...It was like I couldn't be a part of your life anymore, now that we had the same job." She sat up and brushed herself off, her earlier calm replaced by a palpable anger. With a little more force than was necessary, she turned her back to him and started packing the picnic things, dishes and bowls crashing willy-nilly into one another, the complete opposite of how it had been originally packed.

Where the hell did that come from? "Clare?" Dazed and confused, Methos gently placed his hand on her arm.

Clare jerked her arm away and sat back on her heels, years' worth of resentment spilling out of her like floodwaters from a dam. "Don't dare try to make nice with me, Dr. Pierson! This was supposed to be my case -- I found the guy, remember? -- and you won't share even one little piece of information with me. Instead, you waltz in and take control of my life and my career, just like you did back at University, without even asking me if that's what I want, without giving me any choice in the matter at all."

She closed her eyes with a huge sigh. "You never were good about talking things through." The wild anger ran itself out, transforming into total disappointment as Methos watched. "You should have called to tell me about Alexa, either when you met her, or when you left the Watchers for her, or when she died." Confusion and disappointment written in every line of her body, Clare agitatedly pounded on her breastbone with one hand to emphasize her point. "I learned all of that from other people, Adam. How is that supposed to make me feel?"

He couldn't say anything, just watched as she fell apart in front of his eyes. My god, she's going to cry. He couldn't stand it anymore and reached out to pull her close to him.

This time she didn't draw back; instead, she snuggled into his arms, finally starting to relax. "You tell your friends about crap like that, you know. You shouldn't keep that stuff bottled up inside."

"I could say the same." Methos spoke gently, his mind whirling around what she'd said. He hadn't needed to talk to her about any of that, because he had had MacLeod there to stand by him after Alexa had died. He had forgotten to keep up his relationships with other people as the Highlander filled so much of his life. He was a little puzzled at himself, wondering just when his friendship with MacLeod had become so all-encompassing. "I'm sorry, Clare. I didn't think. Things have just...happened...lately, and I..." He let his voice drift off, trying to figure out how to patch this friendship back together.

But he really wasn't sure that he ought to. Maybe MacLeod had been right, maybe it was time to choose whether he wanted to play at being mortal, or to act like an Immortal once again. Damn MacLeod for getting him wrapped up in all this and for pulling Clare in as well.

"You also didn't tell me you knew an Immortal." Clare voice was soft, her voice like a knife sticking itself deep in his guts. Methos froze at her words, his breath catching in his throat, and she looked up at him from the safety of his arms. "I spent some time finding out what you'd been up too after you took the files from me at the restaurant. You said you knew Dawson. You never mentioned you knew MacLeod." Her fingers stroked down his face, and her voice sounded slightly dazed. "You were part of that whole mess with Galati, which is why you aren't with the Watchers anymore. My god, Adam!" She swallowed hard. "How could you keep all that from me as well? We were friends. Good friends..."

His fingers closed around hers, and he smiled, his mind latching onto a plan to divert her attention. "We are." Then he cupped her head in his hands, and his mouth descended for a soft, velvet kiss, completely unlike the one he'd given her the other night. It spoke of promise and fulfillment; Methos knew it was a complete and utter lie. Yet at some level, Methos relished the contact, leaning into Clare's warmth, absorbing the sense of connection like a thirsty sponge. Simultaneously, part of his brain sardonically congratulated him on his expert manipulation. "Come on. Let's pack up the things. I'll tell you what little I know on the way."

With a sigh of what sounded like relief, Clare finished the rest of the packing, and Methos hauled it all back to the car while his mind worked on exactly what he would say about Duncan MacLeod.

* * *

   
He spun the tale as he drove, sticking as close to the truth as possible, exaggerating all the wrong parts and subduing the rest. Part maze, part minefield, every word had to ring true, yet lead to the wrong -- and utterly mundane -- conclusion that Adam Pierson was as dazed by Immortals as she was, and chief among them, Duncan MacLeod.

The conclusion worked well for two reasons: one, Adam was a researcher and thus rarely in contact with Immortals; and two, Clare was so dazed by MacLeod it would only seem natural that Adam would be as well.  
The only real problem with the exercise was that it revealed to him just how intertwined his life and the Highlander's had become.

"So," Methos breathed a sigh of relief as he found a way to conclude his tale, "Although most of what I know about MacLeod I read in his Chronicles or heard from Joe, I have spent some time with him on my own." He added just a touch of pompous self-satisfaction to that last sentence, so it sounded like someone 'enhancing' their relationship a bit. "I've even seen his loft in Seacouver, you know."

"But was MacLeod in it at the time?" Clare sounded exasperated, which was good, he thought. At least she didn't sound quizzical anymore, and the questions appeared to have stopped. "I'm sorry, Adam, but it sounds like you're making mountains out of molehills. If Joe Dawson weren't such a good friend of yours, you'd never have even met the man." She pounded the door gently. "Talk about luck."

Silence reigned on the passenger side as Clare thoughtfully watched the pastoral countryside whiz by. She finally sighed and looked at him again as they took the turn up the long drive to the hospital. "Well," she sighed. "As usual, Adam, you've told a hell of a story, but somehow managed not to tell me anything that I didn't already know -- other than where MacLeod has his laundry done, I suppose. Did you major in trivial detail at Oxford, or is it just an in-born talent?"

"I don't know what you mean," Methos tried to put just the right touch of indignant hurt into his voice, pleased that she had taken hold of the line. She'd assume that everything he talked about came from Joe and maybe two or three casual meetings with Mac; he would be safe for awhile.  
"Okay, Dr. Pierson." She smiled over at him as he helped her pull her things from the parked car. "Just tell me this so I'll be forewarned. Is he as good looking as the rumors have it, or am I going to be disappointed?"

Methos had to bite his tongue to keep from rolling his eyes to the heavens. Good grief. He snatched the backpack out of her hands just in time to prevent her from dropping it. "No, Clare," he sighed, hefting the laden pack over his shoulder. "You won't be disappointed."

The Highlander was just as good-looking as everyone said, and that was another uncomfortable thought.

* * *

   
The decorator of the waiting room had obviously been striving for 'cheerful', but had achieved fast-food restaurant décor instead. Duncan thumbed through ancient reading material left on the plastic Parsons table next to him but really couldn't work up an interest in business news three years out of date. He wanted to wait until Methos and his psychologist friend arrived before visiting Benny, but they were over a half-hour late. He wasn't looking forward to this meeting and would just as soon have some moral support with him.

And since neither Joe nor Amanda was around, that meant he'd have to make do with Methos, instead.

He sighed and tossed another magazine down, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his head back against the wall. 'Make do with Methos.' That wasn't quite true. Methos was a good friend, but he was a hard man to get to know. He'd been vulnerable after Alexa died, and in a way, Duncan had relished taking care of him. Methos didn't usually let people fuss over him and make a big deal, and Duncan respected his right to privacy.

Still, it would be nice if he weren't so prickly all the time. Where had that young researcher gone, the one he'd first met? Probably the same place as his own youth. Wiped out through too many losses, too many shortened lives. He wasn't good at talking about his past, too many parts he wanted to forget -- and Methos certainly had a lot more past to try and forget. If it was important, it would come out. He didn't mind the wait.

Duncan was deeply engrossed in an article from Psychologist Today, about hormonal influence on psychotic behavior, when a roll of sensation began in the back of his head and rolled down to the lower part of his spine. He quickly scanned the rest of the article and threw the tattered magazine back into the pile of equally tattered publications, rising just as Methos and a young woman came through the institution's front doors.

Methos caught sight of him almost immediately and steered his companion in that direction, looking distinctly irritated. The irritation was confirmed by the constant boil of chatter back and forth between the two people, carried on in a vaguely whispering tone that was hard to overhear. They stopped in front of him, still talking, and Duncan cocked his head curiously at his friend, wondering what had managed to fluster the normally unflappable man.

Finally, there was an awkward silence between them, and Duncan turned his gaze to the woman who was at Methos' side.

"You must be Clare Winge." He smiled and reached for her hand. "Delighted to meet you. My name is Duncan. Duncan MacLeod."

The oval face flushed as she returned the gesture, dropping a file full of papers in the process. "Oh, shi...dear," she stammered. She reached down to pick the papers up, but Duncan had already grabbed most of them, neatly stacking them and handing them back. "Of course I know who you are, Mr. MacLeod," she rambled. "I'm just so delighted to meet you. I mean, it's so terrific that you want to help me...help Mr. Carbassa, that is."

Duncan could well imagine how disconcerting it would be for a non-field agent Watcher to meet an Immortal. They had studied his Race in books for so long, their lives had likely taken on mythic proportions. He remembered how uncomfortable he had been that one time he had shown up at Watcher Headquarters, when everyone stopped what they were working on to stare at him; given the possibilities, Clare's reaction wasn't so bad.

"It's okay, Dr. Winge. Adam has told me about you. You can relax. I won't cut your head off." He smiled, trying to lighten the mood and put her at ease, but her face flushed even brighter, and another folder slipped from her grasp and skittered across the floor. He went to retrieve it, wondering if he'd lost his touch.

* * *

"For god's sake, Pierson," Clare whispered frantically as MacLeod bent down again to pick up papers. "Don't just stand there like a tree stump, help me out of this. I'm dying of humiliation!"

"You said you didn't want my help, remember?" Methos said a bit huffily. "You had this handled, remember? Wanted your case back?" Part of him had enjoyed the irony of Clare's utter discombobulation in an Immortal's -- Duncan MacLeod's! -- presence, while the mythic Methos stood ignored and relegated to role of chauffeur and chaperone.

The other part of him was just plain irritated. He had spent thousands of years developing 'blending in' to an art form -- but this was ridiculous.

"Here," he reached out and took over the various files, relieving her of her excess burdens. "And Clare," he whispered, knowing MacLeod could hear him, "he's just a guy."

Clare shot him a dirty look but managed to transform it into a brilliant smile for the tall, brawny Scot as MacLeod returned with the errant papers, handing them to Methos with a private, mischievous grin.

Mac then turned to Clare, taking her elbow and walking her towards the desk, assuring her he hadn't waited long and didn't mind at all, and asking her probing questions about her work. Methos followed along behind, burdened like a pack mule, shooting mental daggers into MacLeod's back...or Clare's back...or whatever was closer.

By the time they had been escorted through several wards to a private meeting room, Clare and MacLeod were chatting comfortably about everything from Benny Carbassa's mental health to favorite Paris restaurants to the weather. Methos had generally slogged along silently, taking up the rear. But their mood turned somber as the aide led Benny into the small conference room. Mac looked genuinely shocked at his friend's appearance.

"Benny?" he said softly as the aide guided him patiently to a chair and pushed on his shoulders lightly until the expressionless man sat. Mac looked over at Methos. "He didn't react at all to the presence of ... to my presence."

"He was completely non-responsive when I was here before," Clare explained. "I tried everything I know, everything the textbooks say to try to reach him, and he didn't even acknowledge..."

But even as she spoke Benny's eyes slowly gravitated towards MacLeod, fixing him with a blank stare that gradually focused on his face Then the expression altered, changed, warped into a mask of horror and pain and hatred. Both men rose, and Mac reached out, thinking to help or comfort, but Carbassa stumbled back out of his chair to the wall, his mouth forming a small "o".

"Benny, it's Mac," Duncan said in a soft, even tone, reaching out to gently touch his friend's arm. "Duncan MacLeod, remember? Remember when you came to my loft in Seacouver just a few years ago? I'm here to help you, Benny."

But Benny's mouth only opened and closed several times, and a small repetitive squeal began to emerge, like nails pulled from Styrofoam. His voice seemed squeezed out of a small tight place, making it squeak as it left his mouth. Benny's round face worked harder as sweat began to pour down his face, trying to turn the noise into words with visible effort. "C...C...Cursed. Cursed!" The doughy face flushed red, his fists clenched and Benny gathered them in close into his chest as his eyes fixed on Mac's face. Pain as sharp as a knife radiated from him; it physically hurt to be in the same room.

Clare rose, alarmed, ready to call for a doctor, but Methos touched her arm and stopped her, his voice sinking to a whisper as he watched Mac with Benny. "He's immortal, Clare. Let's see what happens. Mac must have triggered something."

"Cursed?" Mac asked patiently. "Did someone curse you, Benny?"  
The small man launched himself at Mac, slamming his fists into the broad chest, his small screams becoming a continuous high wail of pain. "I am...I am...Justice...I am! I burn! I burn!" and the words transformed into a long, agonized cry that rang through the building as the entire ward erupted in chaos.

Methos dropped Clare's arms to help MacLeod. He grabbed Benny from behind while Mac tried to restrain the flailing arms. "Benny, stop this! Benny, it's Mac!"

The aide and several nurses had burst into the room while Mac and Methos had tried to hold him. Benny fought with everyone while they got him restrained, squealing and screeching and screaming incoherent phrases all the way down the hall to his room.

The three visitors were left gasping, chairs overturned, papers scattered on the table and over the floor before they were escorted back to the offices near the building's entrance. As they entered the small, industrial-carpeted room, they all shared a long look, none of them feeling like they understood what was going on. Methos and Clare collapsed onto the couch and sat in strained silence while Mac paced back and forth across the room, waiting for a visit from Benny's doctor.

Methos really hoped that they wouldn't be given too much time to think. The sound of Benny's voice brought up too many memories from his own distant past, and he had no desire to relive any of it. Bad enough that the Watchers found Caspian last year; 'Evan Caspari' should have remained forgotten.  
The doctor arrived like a hurricane, interrupting his thought as she slammed the door open and signed off on her current chart with a flourish. She was a tiny woman with short black hair and a personality and voice that filled the room.

"Well!" she announced, "I'm Dr. Fieldstone. You're MacLeod?" she peered up over half-glasses at the tall dark man. Without allowing him to answer, she plowed on. "This has been a tremendous breakthrough!" she smiled delightedly as though the harrowing scene they had just endured was a cause for celebration. "This is the first reaction we've gotten from this John Doe since he arrived. You say his name is Carbassa?"

Mac opened his mouth to answer, but she kept right on talking. "Well, we've had to sedate him, of course, and I hope he didn't do any serious damage, although a big strapping fellow like you should be able to take a licking and keep on ticking, eh?" She laughed and punched him in the arm to demonstrate her point, then meditatively stared at the bicep she'd assaulted. She possessively hooked her own arm in his and walked him over to the conference table where they sat.

"Dr. Fieldstone, I'm Dr. Winge," Clare stood, aggressively asserting herself into the one-sided conversation, acting just as forward as the doctor had been a few moments ago. And they talk about alpha males marking their territory, Methos thought with a mental sigh.

"I'm afraid we're as mystified as you are about what happened to Mr. Carbassa." Clare didn't give the doctor any more time to speak than the doctor had given MacLeod. "The last time I visited I was allowed to see everything he had with him when he was found. Do you mind if Mr. MacLeod is allowed to examine those articles? It might help us understand what happened to his friend."

Dr. Fieldstone eyed the other woman with a casual look bordering on disdain. "I understand you are a psychologist, Dr., uh, Winge, is it? Have you worked with this patient?"

MacLeod's deep baritone interrupted them. "She is working for me, Dr. Fieldstone." His voice was cool, and Methos recognized that Mac's over-developed protective instincts had kicked in when the good doctor had belittled Clare. "I've known Benny for many years, but we've been out of touch for awhile. I know of absolutely no reason why this has happened or why he reacted as he did just now. However, as his friend, I am prepared to transfer him to a private facility where he can receive proper care."

Ouch, Methos thought. Mac could be wickedly subtle with words when he wanted to be, and his tone and attitude let Dr. Fieldstone know she was not considered adequate for the job. But clearly the doctor, like most doctors in his experience, did not suffer from an ego deficiency.

"Only if I agree to release him to your custody, Mr. MacLeod," she countered defensively. Her former open admiration had turned quite chilly.

"He is a ward of the state, Dr. Fieldstone. It seems highly unlikely that France would prefer to continue to pay for Benny's care in preference to a private citizen picking up the tab, n'est ce pas? And since the Minister of Health is a personal friend...." He left the rest of the thought unspoken as the strong-willed doctor locked eyes with the man she had initially categorized as a pretty-boy, male model type; Methos enjoyed watching her realize that she was completely outclassed by Mac in the power department. It made him want to smile.

"Well," the doctor cleared her throat and looked at her watch. "It will take a few minutes for those materials from the John Doe's.... Mr. Carbassa's records to be retrieved. I'm sure you will do the right thing for him, and his condition can really only improve, after all." She bestowed a chilly smile on the small group. "This facility will cooperate fully with whatever arrangements you might wish to make for the patient's care." She had already lost interest in the case before she reached the door and disappeared.

"Wasn't that special," Clare observed wryly. "But I'm not sure insulting her and making veiled threats was really necessary, Mr. MacLeod."

"I didn't like her attitude," Mac leaned his palms on the desk, meeting Clare's brown eyes with his own. "And call me Duncan."

"Well...Duncan," Clare blushed to the roots of her short brown hair, "Does what Benny said make any sense at all? The bit about a curse? And..." she consulted her notes, "'I am Justice?' Or 'I burn'?"

MacLeod turned away, pacing again. "No. He's certainly been caught up in various justice systems over the last century or so. Benny isn't very old, only about 150, I think, and I can't recall any traumas regarding burning. As a way to die, it's among the very worst, right up there with starving to death."

"I always thought drowning was pretty bad, myself," Methos offered, then looked guiltily over to Clare. "I mean, if you think about it..." he stammered a little, for effect. Benny must have rattled him worse than he thought; he would usually never make a mistake like that. Or maybe it was simply being around MacLeod. "I mean, there's no good way to die, is there?"

Clare looked at him in irritation, and Mac shot him a warning glance; Methos decided to simply shut up before he did something stupid again. It *had* to be being around MacLeod.

"Anyway, nothing Benny said gives me a clue what might have happened," Mac attempted to redirect the conversation away from methods of death.

"Given his strong reaction to you, though...Duncan," Clare added his name hesitantly, the name seeming to require her to smile, -- "With time, I think we could figure out what happened to him."

Mac thought for a few moments, then put his broad hand over Clare's small one. "We must be careful, Dr. Winge," he said quietly, looking deeply into her eyes. "We must be very careful where we tread and what scars we rip open. Sometimes not remembering is the greatest kindness."

Methos really wanted to drink to that. As soon as they got out of here, he was going to a bar and have a beer, whether or not anyone else wanted to come along.

"This is not an academic exercise." Mac continued. "Benny is human, just like you. Just like me. Being Immortal doesn't make us immune to pain beyond bearing, and have no doubt -- that is evidently what has happened to him." He stood and left the room, to pace quietly outside, clearly wishing to be alone for a few moments.

Clare looked over at Methos, as if finally noticing that he had been uncharacteristically silent during their visit. She glanced back at MacLeod, and Methos could tell that she -- for one instant at least -- was finally seeing him as simply human rather than as some sort of Immortal prize. "I didn't realize what I was doing, Adam," she said softly. "I guess we all tend to think of them as not quite real, not really like us, don't we?"

"It's easy to do, Clare," Methos replied with a sigh. "Most Immortals just want to live normal lives. If it weren't for the Gathering, even MacLeod would be just another antique dealer. Like I said, he's just a guy."

"Oh, I doubt that he's ever been 'just' anything," Clare laughed. "Can you picture it? Hanging out with Duncan MacLeod? 'What would you like to do tonight? Rent a movie? Do the laundry? Take a head or two?'"

"MacLeod isn't the headhunting type," Methos replied in his most urbane fashion. "I think it'd be more along the lines of sword practice or chess."

"Oh, Adam, stop it. You're just jealous."

No, I hate that you're belittling something you don't understand, Methos thought in irritation. Renting a movie and hanging out with MacLeod actually sounded like heaven at the moment, a rare time to relax and be himself. The fact that Clare had made fun of that really infuriated him.

An aide joined them, depositing a box on the table and instructing them to return everything, and he really meant everything, back to the nurse's station when they left.

Methos decided to walk off his anger and went to find Duncan, who had wandered out of sight, but was still within sensing range. He found Mac walking in the garden where patients were parked in wheelchairs like decorative potted plants.

"Thinking about Cochran?" Methos asked quietly.

Mac pressed his lips together and nodded his head. "I don't want to make the same mistake." He shook his head. "I should never have forced him to remember."

The two men walked along a cheery sunlit path past blank-faced men and women being carefully escorted, guarded, or watched over by aides in white.

"There is a big difference here, Mac. Warren Cochran had at least the possibility of a life. He was self-aware, could function in society. Benny...Benny is hardly alive at all." Methos put his hand on MacLeod's shoulder. "I know you, MacLeod. You can't leave him like that without at least trying to help."

Mac stopped, looking up through the green canopy of the tall oak tree spread above him. "He's not a bad man, Methos. He's done stupid things, maybe even bad things, but he deserves a life, just like the rest of us." His voice was wistful and sad. Methos wondered who else Mac was thinking of -- Jacob Galati, Fitzcairn...even himself.

The two of them walked in silence back into the grim little conference room where Clare had laid out Benny's belongings. The sword was a cavalry lance from the 18th Century. Methos could tell it was of only moderate quality and not well cared for, with visible nicks in the blade and corrosion on the hilt. There was an old movie ticket stub from a theatre in Paris' red-light district, some change. Then Mac picked up the small, torn piece of cloth that had been found in Benny's hand, feeling it between his fingers.

"This is old," he observed. He moved to the window, looking at it in the bright sunlight. "And stained."

Clare joined him, curiously inspecting the fragment. "I thought it looked like a bloodstain," she offered, and the Scot nodded thoughtfully.

"You said there was a button?" he asked. Clare opened a small brown envelope and carefully poured its contents into MacLeod's hand, where it glinted from the sun's rays.

"Does it mean anything to you?" she asked.

He picked it up in his fingers, holding it to the light. "It looks like its something from a uniform. This insignia is from Cumberland's 31st Regiment. They wore these during the..." he paused and looked at the tartan in his other hand, "...Battle at Drumossie Moor....Culloden," he whispered, his face going still and pale.  



	5. Chapter 5

**Northern England, Fall 1746**

The pale horse stumbled, jolting his dozing rider awake. Duncan pushed strands of near-black hair out of his face and reached down to pat the stallion's neck sympathetically. "Sorry, lad," he murmured. "Soon, soon." He urged the exhausted animal onward into the deepening twilight. They both desperately needed rest and food, but they must also tread carefully; the woods were filled with thieves and murderers, cutthroats wandering the area in the wake of chaos and war. 

A haze of weariness clouded his thoughts, sending them off in unexpected directions, and it came to him that many would consider him one of those cutthroats, those murderers. His shoulders tensed at the thought, adding new levels of exhaustion, as knots were added to knots already tired from riding too long, fighting too long. They were right, of course; he was a murderer at least a hundred times over. He gripped the reins a little tighter; it was what he had been forced to become. His grip loosened, his muscles too exhausted for more than token action. 

If only it would end. 

With desperate longing, Duncan yearned to return to his gentle Highlands, to find warmth and comfort in Cierdwyn's arms. But the screams of his slaughtered compatriots and clansmen still echoed in his ears, driving him on, incessantly reminding him of his oath of vengeance. They had charged through the line at Culloden, barely seeing ten yards ahead in the driving sleet and thick mist of Drumossie Moor, holding on to the belief that they had the English routed at last. 

Instead, they had discovered that it was a trap. 

Cumberland's troops split, drawing them in for the slaughter. Outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and outgunned, the Scottish army -- made up mostly of fierce warriors from the Highland clans -- was routed instead. Duncan died that day along with some 2,000 others. Bleeding, choking, painful deaths, as the English slaughtered them like sheep. Three times Duncan died, each time rising to more horrifying smells and sounds and sights than the last. The wounded, screaming or silent, it didn't matter, died as he walked the battlefield; Duncan could do nothing to save them. Each time he rose, he lifted his huge claymore once more to defend his countrymen, to save those that were left, defending their honor, their freedom, their Bonnie Prince Charlie, the King of the Scots, the Chief of Chiefs. Until their Prince fled in ignominious defeat. 

But Prince Charlie's departure didn't mean that the nightmare would end. Defeat in battle was bad enough, but what followed it was worse. 

Cumberland had ordered his men to go through the battlefield, slaughtering the wounded where they lay; none of MacLeod's clansmen survived. The Earl of Rosemont then ordered that his army spread out into the countryside, burning and pillaging, killing any and all thought to sympathize with the "Highland rebels." The innocent were slain along with the guilty without discrimination until an entire people, an ancient way of life went up in ashes and down in blood-soaked earth. 

Except for him, whom they could not kill, left behind alone to mourn. This was Immortality at its worst. He had thought killing Rosemont with his own hands would quench his thirst for vengeance, but it wasn't enough. So he continued, hoping each time that the next death would be enough, would make this terrible anger stop, would finally put his clamoring ghosts to rest. 

The meager trail his horse had been following on instinct broadened into a road and the weary animal surged ahead with renewed energy as he caught the tantalizing scent of hay and of his own kind. MacLeod reined to a stop at the edge of light shining gently from the windows of the roadside inn. It looked almost deserted, which was good. His clothes were crusted with blood, and he wore a tartan philabeg besides, marking him as a Highlander and a rebel. He had refused to lay it aside in accordance with Cumberland's decree, but there was a difference between heroics and imprudence. He dismounted, pulled his long dark cloak close around his shoulders and walked his now-eager mount into the yard. He gave the stallion over to the care of the stable boy, handing him an extra tuppence to assure a good rub down and an extra measure of oats for his loyal and abused friend. He stopped briefly to rinse his arms and face in the horse trough, washing away the streaks of dried blood that had stained them for days, and pulled his voluminous cloak tight around him, so that the stains and dirt on his clothing could not be seen. 

Fortunately, the interior was dark and occupied only by a mobcapped woman just this side of twenty, who was busying herself spreading fresh rushes on the floor and filling the room with a pleasant woodsy smell. She looked up at his entrance, her fair, heart-shaped face framed by the golden curls that had escaped her cap. 

"'Evn'n, Sir," she nodded politely. 

He nodded back, reluctant to speak with an accent that would surely betray his origins, although this woman might not know the subtle regional differences of Highland versus lowland speech patterns. He moved to a dark corner near the fireplace, gratefully settling into a deep chair that put him even further into shadow. 

"D'ye care for a bit of ale, then sir?" the woman asked. 

"Aye," he responded. "And a meal. Whatever is handy." 

She dipped a small curtsy and scurried away. 

He had dozed off briefly, then started awake as she lay the food and drink on the table next to him. Their eyes met before he quickly looked away. Hers were a remarkable light blue, almost gray, like winter ice. 

"Will you be needin' a room for the night, then?" she asked. 

"Aye, if there's one available." 

She laughed, a low, sweet sound. "No one travels along here these days, not with all the fightin' goin' on. No," she sighed. "All we see are soldiers and the occasional wanderer like yerself. It gets right lonely for Martha and me, it does, with only our Pa and Wilson the stable boy for company. If it weren't for my Jonathan, I'd go crazy out here in the middle of nowhere." 

The girl obviously wanted to talk, and the warm vibrations of a womanís soft tones soothed his frayed and wounded soul. So he nodded periodically and made encouraging noises as he ate and drank, letting her mundane and everyday words work their healing magic, feeling the tension gradually drift away as his thirst and hunger eased. 

In a voice blessed with warmth and deep feeling she described her Jonathan, whom she had not seen in months. He could tell from the slow rise of color on her shoulders and neck and into her cheeks that their relationship had gone far beyond hand holding or a stolen kiss in the barn. 

"He's goin' to ask for my hand the next time he comes, I'm sure of it," she gushed. 

"He's a lucky man, for sure," the Highlander said quietly, triggering even more of a blush on the girl's fair skin. 

"Oh, go'wan," she almost giggled. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know why I'm prattling on so." 

"Neither do I, you silly goose," a piping high voice spoke from the kitchen doorway. 

They both turned, acknowledging the presence of a girl who could only be this woman's sister, Martha. She was tiny, no older than twelve, with long auburn braids trailing over each shoulder. "You'll have to excuse, Mary, sir," she smirked. "She never passes up a chance to talk to a man." 

He smiled. Mary had been his mother's name. 

"Oh, be quiet, Martha, and get back to the kitchen where you belong. You know Pa don't like you out here with the customers." 

"What customers?" Martha answered with an impish grin, sidling up to them with a distinctly womanly swish of her hips, undoubtedly imitated from her older sister. "This gentleman is the only lodger we got and I'm sure he would do us no harm." 

"No, la.., young lady, I intend no harm." He had to smile with his words. He had almost allowed himself to flirt with this child, to use the colloquialisms of his home country even as he heard a little of the brogue in these children's speech, so close to Scotland's borders. 

"Well, Mary, I don't think your Jonathan would approve, now would he," young Martha teased. "Your sittin' here flirtin' with a big, handsome man while he's out pining away for you in loneliness and privation." 

"You just hold yer tongue, ya little wretch," Mary shot back, blushing furiously, her barely-contained curls fairly bouncing with the strength of her irritation. 

Duncan enjoyed the by-play between the two sisters. It reminded him of the constant teasing squabbles he had had growing up among the many cousins in his clan. Little Miss Martha had undoubtedly discovered a predictable way to annoy her big sister, and in the way of sisters since the beginning of time, used her weapon like the experienced warrior in sibling warfare she obviously was. 

"Jonathan knows I love him and will wait for him, forever if that's what it takes." Big sister Maryís eyes were fierce and it was clear that she meant every word. 

Even as young Martha made a rude noise intended to be funny, Maryís comment made Duncan a little sad. "Forever is a very long time," he said softly, feeling the weight of his 154 years, so filled with loneliness and loss. "I don't know that love can last forever. I dinna know if anything can last forever." 

"My love can!" Mary snapped, her temper flaring as her blue eyes flashed like lightening. "Forever and beyond. Beyond death, if necessary!" she added with a flair for the dramatic. 

Then fate, as she so frequently and tragically does, took a hand, slamming the door open, letting in the crisp, chilled fall air as well as three men, all dressed in the uniform of Cumberland's army. 

"Jonathan!" Mary squealed, dashing to the first man through the door. He picked her up and swung her around with a great laugh, her cap flying off and releasing a cascade of golden-red hair. 

"Mistress Mary!" the man greeted with a warm, booming voice, then kissed her roundly, put her down and hugged her close for a long moment. "Oh, Mary, Iíve been thinkiní of nothing else since we left but seeiní ya again," the man said. He cupped her small face in his big, rough hands and kissed her again, gently on the forehead. 

His two companions called out to Mary and her sister, greeting them like old friends, propping their bayoneted rifles and swords against the wall near the door and divesting themselves of their cloaks. Their red uniforms with their many buttons in long rows down the front were stained and travel-worn, their boots caked with mud and darker stains. Their white wigs were laughably tattered and mussed, and the men quickly swept them off, casually dropping them on a table as they sat, calling for ale and food. 

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod moved further back in his chair, into the deep shadows. His big fists clenched around his mug, but he forced himself to remain still. He had killed so many in the last few months, so many red uniforms ripped open, so many white wigs soaked black with their wearerís blood and sometimes smeared with their brains. He had heard that his name was now spreading through the countryside as a curse, a monster evoked to frighten children into good behavior. It had brought him satisfaction at first, but now he hated the thought. This was not what he had intended his life to become, but the voices of the dead still howled in his head, still haunted his dreams. 

Perhaps tonight, though, he didnít need to kill. _Let it be_ , he told himself. He forced his hands to unclench, forced himself to bring the mug of ale to his lips, watching and listening to the trio of redcoats as they laughed and joked with the two sisters. 

They spoke of mundane things, of their hunger and thirst, of their gladness to see Mary and Martha. A grizzled gray-haired man, old and bent before his time, came out from the kitchen to greet them and bring a large tray of food and drink, then stopped by Duncanís chair. 

"Anything else I can get ye, sir?" he asked. 

"Another ale, if you please," Duncan replied. "Then Iíll be going to my room." 

"Very well then, sir. Anytime youíd like. Take the third door to the right up the stairs in the back," he answered, gesturing to the stairway at the back of the room. "Iíll try to keep these boyos from makiní too much of a ruckus, but you know how soldiers are," he smiled, retreating to fetch the ale. 

"Aye," Duncan whispered to himself. "I know." 

Jonathan had pulled Mary into his lap as soon as her father was out of sight and the two lovers murmured and giggled together blissfully in the corner. The other two men attacked their food and drink forcefully, and for a few minutes the room was almost silent and MacLeod began to relax his guard a little. Yes, he thought. I donít have to kill. Not tonight. Not here. 

He drained his mug, feeling his aching exhaustion evolve to sleepiness and he began to regret his order of another ale. Jonathan had rejoined his friends and was trying to catch up to them in consumption of food and drink. Mary slipped in to sit beside him, hanging onto his arm even as he ate. 

"How long can ye stay?" she asked breathlessly. 

"Only a day or two," came the gruff answer. "Our captain wants to move further north towards Glenfinnan. I thought we'd cleared out all the barbarian bastards, but with this marauder on the loose, he wants to us to go back to make certain." 

Mary shivered visibly. "I've heard he can't be killed, that he's a walking corpse." 

"He'd almost have to be, after the last six months," one of Jonathan's companions growled over his ale. 

"That's enough, Nathan," Jonathan warned. "We don't want to upset the ladies." 

"Why not?" the man snarled. "They should know what we've been through, what kind of animals those damn Jacobites are." 

"Were," came the first word the third man had spoken. 

"What?" Mary asked. 

"I said were," the man repeated. "They're gone, no more, pfft," he said messily, taking another long draft from his ale. 

"What do you mean?" little Martha asked softly, sitting down at the table with the men, her eyes big and round. 

"Don't tell me you feel sorry for them, Alfred," Nathan demanded. "You heard what Lord Cumberland said. They eat their enemies! The bastards wear those skirts and put blue paint on their faces. They're barbarians, for Christ sake!" 

"And they live like animals," Jonathan snarled. "In hovels, with pigs and sheep and such practically in the hut with them. And so many children you'd think all they ever did was f..." he stopped himself with a look at Mary. 

"Well, not so many now," Alfred mused with a grim chuckle. "And what babes there are come spring will noí come from any Highland line will they now, Nathan!" He slammed his companion on his back with a harsh laugh. 

"Shush!" Nathan snapped with a look at the two sisters, listening wide-eyed. "We just made sure thereíd be no more stinkiní rebels to rise up in a few years to kill our own women and children. Thatís all." 

"And just how many women and children did ye rape and slaughter?" a soft voice spoke from the darkness by the fireplace. 

The three soldiers looked nervously at one another. 

"We killed no one who didnít need the killiní, mister, and youíd best keep yer nose outta business that ainít yer own!" Jonathan finally chimed in, suddenly aware of the tension in the room. "Weíre just soldiers, doiní our duty for God, country and Lord Cumberland," he finished, then studied his ale a moment before taking a long swallow. 

"Oh, aye," MacLeod rose, looming large in the shadows, letting his cloak fall open a bit so he could easily reach his weapons. "No doubt yeíve done yer duty well, gentlemen. Good soldiers all. The clans are scattered and hiding, their villages destroyed, the symbols of their lives and history banned, and now they are scoured from the countryside like unwanted vermin. Yes, no doubt youíve done yer duty in the brave fight to destroy old men, women and children." 

Jonathan rose, pushing Mary behind him, away towards the kitchen. She grabbed young Marthaís hand, pulling her close. 

"We want no trouble, mister," Jonathan said. "The war is over." 

"Then why do ye return again and again?" MacLeod advanced, moving closer, his lips pulled back in a sneer, his voice harsh with bitter rage. "Why does your great Lord Cumberland continue to wage war on wee bairns and helpless women? They are defenseless! Their men are all gone, slaughtered as they lay dying on Drumossie Moor. All gone ... except for one they could not kill." He let the cloak drop completely away, revealing his torn and blood-stained clothing: a studded leather baldrick, scarred and worn from long use, protected his torso, soft leather boots encased heavily muscled legs, and a blood-stained tartan kilt in blue and green swung easily around his narrow hips. His eyes burned red and hot as images of the unavenged dead rose up in his mind's eye. 

The three soldiers simultaneously drew a long breath and unconsciously stepped back. Duncan thought he could hear the word 'demon' muttered by one of the men. 

He smiled, wanting to laugh, their terror reaching out to him, drawing him further into the room. He stepped slowly forward, waiting for the first response, his shoulders thrown back so he seemed to take up most of the back wall of the room; his hands wrapped around an enormous claymore that glinted red in the flickering light from the fire. His face was hard, eyes glittering, black and empty now that he scented the kill. He may have been a warrior, born and bred, but now he was what they had made of him, a creature of the inferno, a creature from their worst nightmares. He could feel them tremble with each step he took, but he said nothing, letting them read the death he planned for them in his confident, wide-legged stance and the swing of the thick dark mane of hair that fell well past his shoulders. 

He saw the blood drain from their faces; soon it would begin again. It just needed one word to break the world into motion. 

Mary spoke it, her hands trembling on Martha's shoulders, even though she had nothing to fear. Duncan protected the women, the children from the likes of these hunters. "Jonathan?" she whispered, her voice the spark that lit the fire. 

"Get out!" her lover ordered, his voice clipped, his attention focus on MacLeod. "Take Martha and get out of here!" 

"I wonít leave you!" she cried. Martha tugged at her, trying to get her back to the kitchen, but she seemed rooted to the spot. 

"Oh, stay, Miss Mary," Duncan said quietly, giving her permission to watch as he knew she would. "Stay and see how bravely your dear Jonathan does battle." _Watch him as he dies. Watch just as so many of our women have watched their loved ones be slaughtered._ "At least this time he will be fighting someone who can fight back." 

The jibe seemed to hit home. "There are three of us and only one of you, Highlander!" Jonathan growled. "Leave now and weíll let you go in peace. I donít want any trouble in this place." 

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he intoned quietly, confirming what he knew they feared most. "And I will leave only when there are no more murderers of women and children left alive to slaughter again." His matter-of-fact tone made the statement all the more chilling, their deaths a forgone conclusion. 

Alfred, silent most of the evening, was the first to move, diving toward their weapons. The Highlander was still, and actually waited until the man had his sword in hand, then in two steps and an ominous hum of air from the giant claymore, gutted his opponent in one powerful swing. Alfred's strangled cry sent the others scurrying for their own weapons, and the two sisters screamed as intestines oozed from the man's stomach while he slammed to his knees, clutching his abdomen, then toppled over, gagging and whimpering. 

One down, MacLeod thought, knowing the man was doomed to die in agony as his bowels spilled out of his body and onto the floor; justice for the ones he'd killed at last. 

The other two soldiers circled Duncan, one with a bayonetted rifle point to hold him at bay, and Jonathan with his saber. 

"Stop!" wailed little Martha, who had broken away from her sister and cradled a suffering, mewling Alfred in her lap. 

_I wish I could_ , MacLeod thought, _but I cannot._ Nathan jabbed towards him, but his rifle was batted away by swing of the heavy sword, leaving an opening for Jonathan. The saber slashed in, taking a long slice out of MacLeod's right thigh. With a snarl, MacLeod completed a circle and switched hands with the weapon, his fist smashing into Jonathan's face and sending him flying back into a table with a crash as the wood splintered under the force of his fall. 

He knew he could have killed the man right then, but something stayed his hand. His mind was blank, operating on instinct, but instinct was not lethal this time. Nathan had scrambled to his feet, Mary had rushed to Jonathan's side as he picked himself up, and the girls' father appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, his face a mask of shock and horror. 

Then, as it so often does during battle, time slowed to a crawl. Nathan pulled a pistol from his belt, raising to his knees, and fired at point blank range. The bullet slammed into the Scot's chest, through the heavy leather, throwing him onto his back with a sense of crushing pain and pressure. Jonathan rose, saber raised, his face distorted with battle rage, lunging towards him. Gritting his teeth against the pain, MacLeod pulled his dagger out of his boot, sending it with an expert twist of his wrist through the air where it embedded itself into Jonathan's chest, staining his white piping red to match the rest of his uniform. 

Mary screamed out her lover's name, catching his body as MacLeod staggered to his feet. Nathan froze in shock as the Highlander rose from what should have been a fatal wound, stepping ponderously towards the last soldier, closing in for the kill. Nathan dropped his rifle, stepped back, tripped over the broken table, fell, rolled, turned, grabbed the first thing that came into his hand on the next table and threw. The Highlander dodged and the lantern smashed to the floor behind him. He smelled the oil as it spilled and spread, and felt the heat as flames slowly licked across the rushes, still damp and fresh and green, filling the room with acrid smoke. 

And still the warrior came, stalking his prey until Nathan had no place left to run, had backed all the way to the cold stone wall, whimpering and begging incoherently. 

"Ye will nae rape any more Highland women, ye Sassenach bastard!" MacLeod snarled. The claymore sang once more, cutting deep into the red uniform, slicing the man practically in two. The old man standing the kitchen doorway only a few feet away was splattered with the Englishman's blood as it sprayed and the body fell in a grotesque heap at his feet. He staggered back, his face gray with shock. Then he turned and screamed. 

"NOO! Mary, NO!" 

MacLeod felt a hot agony slice through his back. He gasped and staggered and turned. Mary stood behind him, his bloody dagger in her hand, red dripping off of her knuckles onto its handle and down her forearm. His blood. 

The irony of the moment skittered through his mind, almost the last of his thoughts: he'd wanted to protect Mary from the men who murdered his clan; instead, MacLeod had made her a murderer as well. Revenge tasted bitter when the innocent were involved; where was his righteousness now? 

Duncan instinctively tried to reach around, but the wound in his back was too far away, too deep. Blood bubbled up in his throat, his vision began to tunnel in and he knew he was dying. Again. 

Mary stepped back as the Scot turned with a gasping, gurgling sound, red staining his lips and chin, stumbling towards her. She stepped back, but his heavy bulk crashed into her, the sad dark eyes clouding over as, just for a second, he held her almost in a lover's embrace before he collapsed, lifeless, to the floor. She leaned down, ready to stab again even as her father and her sister were pulling her away, shouting at her that they had to get out. 

"No! I have to kill him!" she wailed, grabbing onto the demon's body as her family pulled her away, but the creature was already dead, dark eyes blank and staring and lifeless. The tartan fabric ripped as the body fell out of her arms, her father finally forcing her back, but she could not tear her eyes away fromÖit. 

It was gone, all gone, her whole life destroyed by that...thing. She felt the bile rise in her throat as she remember how they had joked when he had first arrived, and how she had flirted with it, with the demon waiting in the dark. How could she have not seen how evil the creature was then? 

"He's dead, Mary, come away, now!" The voice was a gnat's buzz, barely rousing her attention. She had no desire to leave, no where to go. Her love, her future, her life lay cold and silent on the floor of the inn. She belonged here, with Jonathan. She turned to tell the others to go, but Martha was pulling on her in panic. 

"We must leave! The fire!" Smoke was quickly filling the room, spreading across the floor as tongues of flame licked up the wooden beams. Already sparks were smoldering in the thatch roof above. Soon the inn would be ashes as well... 

Mary broke away from Martha, fending off both her sister and her father's attempts to rush her outside. "I won't leave Jonathan!" She shouted, throwing herself across her lover's body, clinging to it as though somehow she could breathe life back into it through sheer force of will...feeling peace descend as she realize how right this choice was, how important it was to stay and show Jonathan that even death could not separate them. 

But that choice was taken from her as well. Powerful hands grabbed her around her waist, lifting her up ripping her away from her lover, and she screamed, kicking, cursing, fighting as she was carried out into the yard, away from the spreading conflagration. 

She was put on her feet and still she fought, striking out, her hands bruising themselves against a broad chest protected by a heavy leather baldrick. At last she looked upÖand screamed the scream of the damned until she went very quiet and still. She knew the look on her face was suddenly pale, as pale as the corpse that stood before her, and she knew with a certainty beyond instinct that this ... this ... thing was old. Too old to live. 

"You're dead!" she whispered softly, the only other sounds those of her sobbing sister and the spit and crackle of the fire that was consuming her home, her lover, her life. 

"Aye, lass. That I am." The man before her nodded sadly. "I was dead before you were born." 

"What are you? Who are you?" she asked quietly, her eyes hinting at a soul pushed too far, her despair written on her face. Despair that he himself had carved on those young features. 

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." It was the truth, but not what she wanted to know; her real question was 'why did you destroy my life?' He tried to explain, but he was no longer sure if he believed his own answer. "I am Vengeance for all the ones they killed. I am Justice for those that had none. I am ..." _what? Judge, jury, and high executioner for the crimes against my people and clan._ His voice faltered; he knew it was not enough, not a sufficient explanation for her grief, but it was all he had. Her people had killed his, so he had killed them in turn. 

_How many more must die MacLeod, before the time for vengeance is past? How many others must watch their lovers die, or wives, husbands or mothers, sons before the madness would end?_

Mary raised her hand to point at him, then pulled it back, as if she had just noticed that it still held the scrap of tartan she had ripped away. She stared at it a moment, and then opened her other hand, revealing a metal button, pulled from Jonathan's uniform. She carefully wrapped the button in the cloth and held it out to him, a child offering a gift. 

Instinctively, he took it. 

"You," she drew herself up and pushed her hair away from her face, "are cursed." Her face was covered in dirt, her dress torn and bloody from the bodies she'd clutched, her hair a wild nimbus around her. Duncan took a step back, seeing in her the wild magic of the Sidhe, the power of earth, and the strength of a woman wronged. "I curse you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. By all the gods of heaven and earth, by the power of my love for a man who did you no harm, by the power of my hate, I curse you to lose every love in your life to blood and pain." Her voice was low and hard, as echoing and powerful as a banshee's cry, a keening wail of destruction. MacLeod felt rooted to the earth, frozen by her words as they seeped deep into his soul. 

"I curse you to watch every lover die and to be able to do nothing to stop it, until the day I, too, can stab into the heart of the one you love and let the blood of that death wash away my pain!" She turned and watched as the inn's roof caught fire, as flames burst through the windows. "And I seal this testament with my own life." She stepped forward, lightly, towards the burning structure. 

She paused, outlined by hungry flames that licked at her dress and her hair, but Mary seemed unconcerned as she turned, fixing Duncan with that odd, icy blue gaze, speaking with unnatural calm, her voice carrying easily over the roar of the fire consuming her home. "You will never be rid of me, Duncan MacLeod, until the day your love dies at my hands as my love did at yours." She turned and was gone. 

Martha screamed her denial and her father had to hold her to keep the child from running in after her sister; MacLeod looked down at his bloodstained hand, and the fold of cloth and the button fell to the ground from nerveless fingers. 

It was time. It was over. The killing madness was over. 


	6. Chapter 6

**France, 1996**

Clare shot a worried glance at Methos. "What's going on?" she whispered.

"Immortal memory." He shrugged, watching Duncan as he re-lived an instant of his past. "It happens that way sometimes. What most people get in a flash, the Immortal re-experiences. Each time is like re-living the event."

"Oh my God." Clare said, turning to look directly at Methos. "You mean every event in their life can re-occur at any time?"

Methos nodded, still watching Duncan, not sure whether he should intervene, or not. "Something like that." If the memory was the key to the problem -- and they often were -- he wanted to make sure Mac had as much time as necessary to remember every detail. Often, when this type of re-living occurred, it was a flash, an instant of recognition; this one was taking far too long. This type of detail wasn't a particularly good survival skill.

Fortunately, incidents this detailed were also very rare.

"Can you imagine re-living the worst moments of your life over and over? My mother died from cancer -- I'd hate to live through it again."

He was so intent on Mac that he didn't even register that Clare had spoken until images of Alexa spilled into his mind. Methos physically jerked away from where he had been standing, his lips tightening into a small, plastered-on smile as the blood drained from his face. Almost, he could hear the steady mechanical pulse of the automatic blood-pressure cuff, refilling and releasing with a hideous, hissing sigh. Almost, he could see Alexa on the bed; almost he could feel the crisp hospital sheets. _No. Not again._ He calmed himself, focusing on the room and MacLeod rather than the other hospital in his mind...

And then he was back.

Clare watched him, her eyes suddenly wide as she moved in close. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have said that. I forgot about...your girlfriend." She shook her head and turned to watch MacLeod, her voice filled with compassion, though he wasn't sure who it was aimed at. "No wonder so many of them go insane."

She looked back up at him, curiosity written in her expression, and Methos tensed, waiting for her next question. This whole day was more of a minefield than he'd ever anticipated.

"Do you think Methos would be sane if we found him? Five thousand years of memories like that...." She shook her head. "It would be hell."

Methos smiled wryly, the irony of the situation not lost on him. "I don't think it's something most mortals can understand."

Clare worried at her lip a moment, watching Mac, then nestled herself back against Methos. He found himself sliding an arm around her, comforting her -- and in some small way, comforting himself. Her body was warm and soft; she smelled of soap and fabric softener. Normally, Methos held himself back in moments like this, but Clare was comfortable to touch. He looked down at her resting against his arm and watched her watch MacLeod. Her gaze was intense, enthralled. He glanced over at Mac and tried to see what she was seeing. Was it the fascination of a scientist for her subject? Or was it the magnetic attraction the Scot aroused in almost everyone he met, of either gender?

He briefly wondered if Mac would feel as good to touch as Clare did, if he ever decided to allow himself that chance.

Within an instant of that thought, Methos felt like he was standing and watching himself, watching the way his arm lay around Clare, watching the way they both looked hungrily at Mac. His own emotions tumbled and shifted at the image in his mind, looking for a place to settle, some familiar ground on which to tread. His arm tightened a little as he came back into himself, suddenly uncertain about what he wanted. He admitted he felt a twinge of jealousy, but was that because of Clare's infatuation with Mac, which left him an outsider? Or was he jealous of Mac's attention to Clare?

He didn't have time to process the thought before Mac seemed to return to the present, shaking himself and taking a deep breath, his dark eyes troubled and still distant. Methos pulled himself out of his comfortable slouch and slid Clare off of his arm, putting a more formal distance between them. At least this thing with Benny gave him something with which to distract himself. If he were thinking about Benny and working on solving that puzzle, he wouldn't have time to dwell on something other than rebuilding a friendship. "I take it you remembered something relevant?"

"Relevant?" Mac continued to gaze distractedly out the window. "I can't imagine that it's relevant. Just coincidence, I'm sure. It happened a long, long time ago and had absolutely nothing to do with Benny."

"Something prompted it," Methos probed. "What was it about?"

Mac shook his head, a sad smile touching his mouth. "An old button and a piece of cloth? Hardly reliable evidence of anything." He shook his head again. "Just...regrets." He took a deep breath and turned to them, discarding the mantle of memory that had suddenly weighed him down. "I'll visit Benny again tomorrow when he's a little more calm, see if I can get something more coherent out of him." He turned to Clare, effectively cutting Methos out of the conversation. "In the meantime, Dr. Winge, could you give me some advice on where we can transfer him so he's in a facility nearer Paris?"

Mac and Clare talked in low tones while Methos watched from nearby, letting Mac drop the subject for now. He'd follow up later, somehow, when they were alone. When Clare wasn't around.

His stomach knotted and churned as he looked from one to the other, feeling the intensity that Mac projected, a tiny thread of arousal lacing its way up his spine. How was this possible, that he should want MacLeod so? And why couldn't he just compartmentalize it all, the way he had done for so long? Why did Mac make him want so much?

He really needed to stop making friends.

With a plan of action agreed to, they parted company, and Clare motioned Methos to follow her out to the car. They ended up watching as MacLeod's solitary figure got into his black Citroen and drove away, and Methos couldn't help but wonder if MacLeod was just as lonely right now as he himself felt.

"Something's bothering him that he's not talking about," Clare observed as they reloaded all her materials into Methos' car.

"Did you really expect him to blurt out all his life's secrets in front of someone he barely knows?" He sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap like that."

"It was just an observation." She tilted her head to the side for a moment, her eyes as sharp as a bird's. Then she straightened her head with a nod. "If it had been just you, he would have spoken, wouldn't he?"

Well, now, that was a good question. Mac and he were back on speaking terms again, that seemed certain. But as for anything that might actually mean something.... He shrugged and tossed the last box in the car. "I'm not sure. Maybe. Possibly. I don't really know."

"Galati's death really shook him up, didn't it?"

"I suppose. Being forced to take a friend's Quickening is undoubtedly...unpleasant."

"And now there's Benny."

"Yeah."

"He doesn't have a very good track record with friends, does he?"

"No, not really. Not lately anyway."

"Just you and Mr. Dawson, right? And his student, Ryan something."

"Richie," Methos paused, correcting himself. "Richard Ryan. Though he hasn't been around a lot since..."

"The Dark Quickening? Yeah, I heard about that. It's already a legend at Headquarters. And you helped him through that, didn't you?" She smiled admiringly. "You really are an amazing person, Adam. I don't think I would have volunteered to chase after any Immortal who had been transformed like that. I mean, MacLeod could have ended up like Kalas -- or worse. He could have killed you, you know."

"No, I don't think so. I'm sure I could have thought of something."

"It's just that I look at you now, and I think how you've changed since I last saw you. You never were much of a risk taker back then. And now here you are, chasing after Immortals while they're under a Dark Quickening, as well as being caught up in the worst disaster in Watcher history because of him." She paused. "Is it worth it? All that risk, I mean. To be close to him?"

Methos swallowed, hard, not quite wanting to admit to himself how much of that was true. "It can be very rewarding, at times. When he's not pissed off at you."

She laughed and shook her head. "I can imagine." Her voice changed timber, just a little, for her next question. "Girlfriends? Does he have anybody special?"

"Amanda Darieux. Look up her record sometime. It's really quite entertaining."

"So, she's Immortal?"

"Yes, and older than Mac. Around a thousand, I think. I can't remember right now."

She laughed again. "You are so funny, you know that? You can remember what every Immortal in the Watchers database looks like, but you can't remember a woman's age. That's very sweet of you, but I don't imagine that female Immortals are nearly as sensitive about their age as most mortal women are. I mean, they never age or anything -- they'll always be young."

A flash of memory dashed though Methos' mind: Kristen and her hatred of having come into her Immortality just past her prime. "Oh, you'd be surprised," he said. "Some of them are a little more sensitive about it than others. And I like to keep on the safe side."

There was a long pause in the conversation after that, until finally Clare squeaked out, "What about mortals? Does Duncan MacLeod ever date mortal women?"

"In four hundred years, he's certainly dated at least a few."

"I guess I'll have to be blunt about it," she muttered, barely loud enough for Methos to hear. A deep breath and then, "Is he seeing anyone now?"

Finally, the real question. "Not at the moment, no. His long-time lover -- Tessa Noel -- died a couple of years ago. Joe mentioned that he was starting to date some doctor, but I don't think anything came of that." He paused, considering his next words very carefully. "You know, Clare, Duncan MacLeod is one of the most hunted Immortals in the game. While I would be the last person to deny that he has a certain, uh, charm and charisma, being his friend can be difficult and...dangerous."

"Charm and charisma?" Clare's tone was slightly mocking. "Well, that's one way of putting it. I notice even you can't seem to stay away, no matter how difficult and dangerous he is."

"I just meant..." _This is ridiculous_ , Methos swore to himself _. I don't know who I'm trying to convince, or what I'm trying to convince them of._ "I just meant I'd think twice about..."

"About what, Adam?" Clare pressed.

"Damn it, Clare! He'll break your heart!" _Or she'll break his,_ some uncooperative voice in his befuddled brain squawked.

Clare deliberately contracted into a tight, defensive huddle, arms crossed, legs crossed, focus firmly fixed out the passenger side of the car. "Oh, yeah, and you're such a great source of romantic advice, Adam Pierson. You've had, what? One relationship in your adult life? Who was it before then? The girl whose pigtails you dipped in the inkwell in grade school?"

"Ooooo. Is that hostility I hear from the great, empathic, sensitive psychologist?" Methos automatically went on the offensive. "Feeling a little inadequate, are we? Want to talk about it?"

"You know, Pierson, sometimes you can be an arrogant pain in the ass!"

There was a pause as each waited for the other to let fly another barb. Then Methos sighed to himself, not wanting to spend the rest of the trip in tense silence. "Yes," he turned his head to look at her with a boyish smile, "but it's such a cute ass." His wide-eyed expression was completely innocent, and therefore utterly devilish.

Clare frowned at him, but her lips twitched. She squirmed a little, then she chuckled at last. "Yeah, you got me there. It is a cute ass."

Their eyes met, and he saw a friendly glint there that did not involve the heroic and all too attainable Highlander at all.

* * *

As Mac headed back to Paris, the long golden rays of the late afternoon sunshine washed the countryside in a warm glow, and the coming Spring was evident in the pastels blurring the hard edges of winter-barred fields and forests. Traffic was light, and he didn't have anything that needed done at the moment; even the motor on the barge was working fine.

Despite the auspicious weather and circumstance, the soul-wrenching regrets triggered by Benny's two otherwise innocuous belongings left him feeling empty and old. So very old. Why had it taken him so long to learn that taking life, no matter the justification, can never fill the void of life already lost? Poor little Mary. Such a terrible waste. Her words echoed through the centuries, their truth chilling him despite the warm sun. << _By all the gods of heaven and earth, by the power of my love for a man who did you no harm, by the power of my hate, I curse you to lose every love in your life to blood and pain. To watch every lover die and to be able to do nothing to stop it, until the day I, too, can stab into the heart of the one you love and let the blood of that death wash away my pain!_ >>

And so it had come to pass. Debra...Little Deer...Tessa. So many. If he were a superstitious man, the accuracy of her prediction would have given him pause. As it was, it just made him sad. No ancient curse had ripped them away before their time, only man's folly and his own inevitable failings.

The City of Light's finest jewels were reflected and multiplied in the slow moving waters of the Seine by the time he finally got back to the barge on the Quay de la Tournelle. He stood on the deck for a long time, sipping slowly at his best scotch, knowing this was going to be a night for a lot of painful memories and little sleep. He wished Methos were with him. Methos had a knack for puncturing Duncan's balloons of self-recrimination, of forcing his life back into a manageable perspective -- a gift he had come to rely on more and more these past couple of years. Amazing how someone he had known such a short time had come to be so important in his life.

He desperately wanted Methos' approval, without really understanding why. His acerbic wit and cynical commentary both grated and stimulated, constantly forcing Duncan to examine his motives and actions, discovering things about himself that appalled and frightened him. After four hundred years, to have what he had thought were his strengths shown to be shams of self-delusion was humbling, even as he recognized how much he had to learn. He realized he needed to grow and change, but without losing the core of what he still believed to be important: honor, integrity, truth, and trust -- even though Methos ridiculed his outmoded value system unmercifully. In the last few years, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had been cut adrift, his makeshift clan sadly diminished and scattered, his trust in his own instincts undermined. He was searching, and somehow, the enigmatic Immortal had become his touchstone.

He shivered in the chill mist rising off the water and finished his scotch, suppressing the wave of loneliness that threatened to add to the weight of memories already feeling like lead in his chest. At least he and Methos had found an uneasy peace after that horrible business with the Watchers. Moving on. Each time they had come up against some impossible obstacle to their continued friendship, they had found a way to get past it and move on. He couldn't ever remember working so hard to keep this most tenuous of relationships going. But it was worth it, every angry, frustrating, sometimes humiliating minute of it. There was no one like Methos. The thought made him smile, and his mood lifted a little as he sought the warmth of the cabin below.

But he had been right about it being a long night. Sleep was elusive and troubled, small snatches of dreams, that faded as soon as he was aware he was dreaming, woke him again and again. He had almost decided to forego any further attempts at sleep when his body overrode his mind at last, and he felt into a light doze.  
 

* * *

_The skeletal claws of winter-bared limbs reached for him as he ran, snatching at his clothes, tearing his tartan, pulling his hair. The only sound he heard was his own ragged breathing and the heavy pounding of his heart. Something was chasing him. He did not know what had frightened him so and could not bring himself to turn and look, but it was getting closer. Then he saw a clearing ahead and made for it. Suddenly, he was there, but it wasn't a forest clearing at all. It was a place filled with smoke and vague shadows, figures moving just outside the edge of his vision. He made his way through the crowd, still feeling the sense of foreboding at his back. Then the shadows parted, leaving one figure leaning up against a bar, a drink in his hand. The figure turned._

_"Jacob!"_

_The man was like a wisp of smoke, not entirely there, only a shadow. "Blood for blood, MacLeod," the figure whispered. "Blood for blood."_

_"No! Blood is not an answer to anything!" Mac tried to say, but the words refused to come from his mouth, and Jacob shook his head in disgust and turned away. "Jacob, I tried to save you. We were both betrayed, but more killing is not the answer!" He reached out to grab the ghost, and his hand closed around cold flesh, but the face that turned to him was not that of the dead gypsy, though familiar all the same, small beady eyes wide with horror and pain._

_"Benny?" Mac asked. "Benny, what happened?"_

_Then Mac drew back as the skin of Benny's face crackled and blackened, smoke rising off the burning flesh in putrid wisps and tendrils. The mouth opened in a silent scream...._

His own hoarse shout echoed in the air as Mac bolted upright in bed, his body awash with sweat. The dream had been as real as the feel of the now-damp linen sheets against his skin. For a moment he thought he could still smell the acrid scent of cooked human flesh, and it took several minutes for his stomach to settle and his heart to stop pounding. Dawn's tentative light crept in through the portholes, but provided neither warmth nor comfort. However, the prospect of more dreams chased Mac out of bed and into sweats and running shoes. Maybe he could just outrun his past, he thought as he stretched on the deck of the barge, then set a hard, fast pace down the Quay to force his mind and body back into some semblance of balance. In seconds he was enveloped in the heavy morning fog off of the river, and his clothes were cold and clammy with the damp. By the end of a grueling six miles, he was exhausted, soaked, and no more at peace with himself than when he had started.

* * *

Bloody hell, Methos thought to himself as he slogged through the foggy early-morning streets. He'd been up all night, restless with an intense need and empty longing he hadn't felt in a long, long time. He realized it had been building for a long time and had at last traced it back to the moment Duncan MacLeod had invaded his apartment three years before, standing at the top of his stairs, looking like the Archangel Michael with his broad shoulders, shining sword, and long dark hair. And then he had spoken his name. Just like that. After centuries of hiding, this...this _child_ had recognized him out of sheer intuition, some kind of spiritual knowing. And said his _name_ , for God's sake!

Why did he have to fall for the Highlander? If there was a worse choice, he couldn't think of it -- well, not unless Kronos came back. But it was time to get it out in the open, to at least talk about it. Maybe if he just said it out loud, Mac would be astonished, and then both of them would have a good long laugh at how ridiculous the whole idea was, and life would go on. Then his mind could somehow get out of its current rut...now, that was the wrong word, he decided.

And why he thought breakfast the perfect meal for this, he couldn't really say. Maybe because dinner was too romantic, and lunch too prosaic, for what he wanted to say. He suspected, though, that it was simply because he hadn't been able to sleep. His mind kept turning like a carousel, and he rode the emotional highs and lows of his reluctant self-enlightenment trying to figure out what to do.

The barge lay empty, but Methos didn't mind. Waiting a little longer wasn't so bad; it wasn't like he really wanted to have the conversation in the first place. He opened the door and stepped inside carefully, then headed straight for the small kitchen area and unloaded his packages.

He found a pan and quickly threw in some butter, eggs and milk, cheese, tomatoes, onions, and garlic. The frittata cooked away as he sliced and toasted the bread, made the coffee, and squeezed the orange juice. Then, with the eggs cooked and sitting with the toast in a warm oven, there really wasn't anything left for him to do but wait.

He looked for a clock. 7:30. That made it late enough for a beer -- in Canada.

He opened one anyway and slid onto the couch, knowing how he looked, knowing that Mac would feel something was wrong, yet not quite willing to cover it up just yet. He knew the whole thing was impossible, but for one brief moment, he would indulge the fantasy.

He felt the Highlander's presence surround him and smiled, warmly content, then jerked upright at the tingle of strong Immortal presence that marched up his spine. What the fuck was he doing? He drained the beer and tossed the empty in the garbage as he felt the boat sway when Mac stepped on deck. Midnight dreams could not stand the cold light of day; he needed to make himself presentable before Mac saw him.

Fortunately, Mac seemed as tired as Methos himself felt, looking distracted and confused. Old sweats, no shower, hair still in disarray from the night in bed. Methos thought he looked practically edible.

"What the...?" Mac stopped at the entryway, staring at him. Methos knew it wasn't the way he looked -- it was just jeans and an old shirt for Christ's sake -- but there was something about Mac and the way Mac was looking at him like... like he wondered what the hell Methos was doing cooking him breakfast.

Methos swallowed, wondering what he'd been thinking. He pushed the sleeves on his shirt up to his elbows and tucked his hands awkwardly in his back pockets, resting all his weight on one leg, feeling almost...sheepish.

Just why had he wanted to come here, anyway?

"Uh, oh," Mac sighed as he clumped wearily down the stairs, pulling the towel from around his neck and sopping away the sweat from his face and neck. "What's wrong? Have I done something? Or have you done something we need to talk about?"

Panic fluttered in Methos' gut. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all. He needed to talk, yes, but there had to be someone else he could talk to besides Duncan MacLeod.

He shrugged, kicking himself for losing his nerve. "I couldn't sleep and thought you might like breakfast, that's all. I knew you got up early." He couldn't believe how pathetic he sounded. It wasn't like Duncan was his only friend in Paris.

Duncan looked dubious, but let it go. Maybe he wasn't feeling that great this morning, either. Mac slid around him to check the oven, and the casual touch of his shoulder sliding across Methos' chest in passing sent little ripples up Methos' spine. He closed his eyes a moment, bringing everything back under control.

"Smells good." Duncan closed the door so the heat wouldn't escape. "Will it keep another five minutes so I can shower?"

Methos looked over at Duncan and nodded. "Hey, it's your place. Be your guest."

With a perfunctory and distracted smile, Duncan went back down the stairs to the main room, peeling off his sweatshirt. Underneath he wore a well-worn T-shirt that was soaked through and molded to his torso. With a small groan of effort and discomfort, Mac pulled off the second garment. The tie from his hair came loose as he did, the silver Celtic clasp rolling loose onto the floor and out of sight under the coffee table.

As Mac bent down to pick it up, Methos couldn't keep his thoughts from drifting. What a picture, he realized, an artist's dream. Broad, smooth back, muscular shoulders like golden wings, ones that you could hold on to or bite without worry, a perfect, round ass, a thick mass of mahogany hair that would splay out around him, dark eyes you could get lost in, a lush mouth perfect for...

Mac had retrieved the hair tie and was staring back at him with an odd expression. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"What? No!" Methos had to turn away back to the kitchen to hide his flush of embarrassment and the all too obvious erection that had suddenly and uncomfortably filled his crotch. "Just checking our breakfast. Better hurry up with that shower. Wouldn't want to serve you burnt eggs," he called out in what, even to his own ears, sounded like a chirpy, brittle voice. Down, boy, he admonished his unruly anatomy.

Wondering at Methos' ability to knock him off balance merely by showing up in the morning, Mac retreated to the shower.Despite the waiting breakfast, he lingered a bit, letting the warm water pound into his skin in a vain effort to wash away the unease fostered by the events of the previous day and the long, unsettling night. At last he shut off the water and toweled off, pulling a comb through the tangles of his hair. One look in the mirror convinced him that he really ought to shave, as well. Sleeplessness plus beard growth equaled haggard on his dark face and square jaw. He didn't want Methos to know just how troubled he was, since obviously he had something on his mind he needed to discuss.

Mac just hoped he hadn't screwed something up again. It happened all too often. He jumped to unwarranted conclusions, managed to offend when it wasn't intended. The prickly Immortal always had an unsettling effect on him. Either he felt giddy with the knowledge that Methos actually wanted to spend time with him, or he was furious with the man for...well, if he had to be honest, for making him feel like a child. _There's a big surprise_ , he chided himself. _Compared to him you are a child._

He started out the door, then suddenly realized he was nude, and he had a guest. For a split second, he hesitated. _It's only Methos_ , he reminded himself. But some subliminal vibration of discomfort made him grab a towel at the last minute, tucking it around his hips.

Methos was busy at the table, setting out dishes and cutlery. "I thought you were going to hibernate in there," he called over his shoulder. "Do you want orange..." the forks and knives spilled out of his fingers as he turned to ask his question. "...oops...I mean. Shit!" he fumbled around, chasing after the errant silverware.

Mac discreetly turned his back as he dropped the towel and quickly slipped into jockeys, chinos, and a soft sweater, wondering what had Methos so unsettled. He'd looked flushed, his breathing rapid and shallow, rather than his normal cool and collected self.

"Something wrong, Methos?" Mac asked as he sank tiredly into his seat at the table. Now that he looked closely, Methos looked a little raw himself. His skin looked positively feverish.

Methos studied his plate in silence for a moment, moving the slightly overdone frittata around with his fork.

"Methos?" Mac reached out and gently, touched his arm. "Are you okay?"

"Uh, you know, Mac, this has taken longer than I thought, you know? And I was going to meet someone over at the, uh, Library. I'm sorry. I really lost track of the time." He dropped his fork and stood, the scraping of his chair making a startling, ugly sound.

"Methos! What...?" Mac stood as well, his face now showing his very real curiosity and concern. But the man could move like a mongoose when he put his mind to it, and his coat was swept up and he was halfway up the stairs.

"Enjoy the eggs, MacLeod. I'll call you later."

And then Methos was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

"What the hell was that all about?" Mac murmured to the empty room. Methos normally wouldn't let good food go to waste, even if he was late for a meeting. And Methos was the one who had cooked everything.

It was all quite odd.

Mac found himself staring at the blank space where Methos had been a few moments ago, shrugged, unfolded his paper, and ate his breakfast, which was really quite good despite having been held in the oven so long. But in spite of his best attempts, the newsprint remained a jumble of ink and whitespace, his mind more interested in the picture of Methos' lean form and bright, wary eyes just before he whipped out the door. Finally, after admitting to himself that trying to read was a lost cause, Mac set the unabsorbed news aside and cleaned up.

Scraping Methos' uneaten breakfast into the garbage, he looked around the kitchen and had to smile. The man had managed to use virtually every pan and bowl Mac owned, and maybe a few more besides. He puttered around the area, picking up the plates, bowls, and glasses, setting everything in the sink to wash. The warm, sudsy water and routine chores pleased him in some indefinable way, as did the thought of Methos in his kitchen doing domestic chores. There was a freshness to it, a sense of satisfaction and rightness that he hadn't felt in a while. The beer cap he found on top of the refrigerator made him laugh, an old joke now, not a matter of irritation.

Perhaps there was hope for their friendship yet. Methos obviously felt comfortable enough to drop by the barge unannounced, comfortable enough to use the kitchen to cook breakfast without asking first. Or had he been that comfortable? Certainly his behavior had been rather odd, now that Mac thought about it.

The glow started to fade almost instantly. Methos never did anything without a reason. He obviously didn't need housing, as Mac would have found Methos' clothes already hung up in his closet, nor was money ever a necessity -- at least, not anymore. Whatever it was, Methos had run out without even mentioning it, and that made Mac nervous. It couldn't be another Immortal, because Methos would have disappeared if there was trouble, left a warning note or something if he was feeling particularly nice.

He stared at the closed door again and shook his head. No, there was something going on with Methos, something he wanted to talk to Mac about but was afraid Mac would be uneasy discussing. So he'd fixed breakfast, hoping to put Mac in a good mood for whatever it was, only to suddenly change his mind. What had happened? Maybe Mac had done something that had altered things.

He closed his eyes and thought back to his own behavior. He had come in from his run, greeting Methos with wariness, but that had to have been expected; Methos seldom just showed up anymore, in the last few months. Had Mac implied something unkind about the meal? He ran through every thing he'd said and done in his mind, but couldn't pinpoint a thing. It probably wasn't that. He'd taken a shower and that had been awhile. Had Methos really been upset about that? That didn't seem -- his eyes shot open.

No, wait, before the shower, when he had caught Methos staring at him so strangely.

He took the scene apart in his mind, examining it for nuances and subtext that he might have missed before. And when he reassembled the picture this time, that look had taken on a whole new meaning, one that made his legs shake and his heart pound as a knot tightened in his chest. He leaned over the sink, bracing himself with his hands and closed his eyes.

In four hundred years, he'd seen that look enough to know what it meant. But from Methos? That didn't seem right, somehow. Methos... He stepped back and leaned against the counter with a sigh, a little shaken by the direction his thoughts had taken. He must be mistaken about that look. The man had seen everything under the sun a thousand times over; if he was attracted to Mac, surely something would have been mentioned before now -- when they had been on friendlier terms. Although, when he thought on it, he'd never really discussed...anything...like...with Methos...

The whole thing was ridiculous.

But he was pretty certain that something had rattled Methos , right when Mac had emerged from the shower. You would have thought he'd caught Methos trying to steal the silverware. Mac's earlier, lighter mood returned somewhat as he remembered how that normally complacent, cynical expression had been replaced by a flustered, uncertain, almost cute bashfulness. Quite endearing, really.

He shook himself and returned to his chores. This was silly. They both had other concerns. Maybe Methos' discomfort had something to do with Benny, or with his reluctant re-association with the Watchers. The very fact that he had altruistically inserted himself into contact with the Watchers again was very unMethoslike.

That thought caused his thoughts to slow and circle, and he found himself wiping over the surface of an already dry plate again and again. That must be it. Methos only involved himself when he had an ulterior motive. Maybe it had something to do with Dr. Winge?

Maybe, having so recently found and lost Alexa, Methos was looking for someone to hold on to. Someone warm and soft to hold. Someone like Clare Winge.

Maybe that was what he had wanted to talk to Mac about. He had acted this morning the way he had when he first met Alexa. But surely it was too soon for that? Surely he couldn't...at least, not yet.

The thought stuck in his mind like a bone in his throat as he finished his chores and headed back out to the countryside to see Benny. Mostly, he found it vaguely disturbing. It seemed far too soon after Alexa's death for Methos to open himself up to a new relationship. Didn't seem healthy. Especially with a Watcher.

The familiar twinge of guilt in his gut made him grip the steering wheel until it squeaked. It was his own damn fault. He had made Methos choose between the Watchers and being an Immortal, being his friend. Should he be surprised that the man was rebelling at that choice and now felt so awkward about it that he ran out in the middle of breakfast? That he couldn't even talk to him about it?

By the time he pulled into the hospital parking lot, he had managed to work himself into enough of a self-critical funk that he forced himself to stop, take a deep breath, and clear his mind. He owed Benny his whole attention.

* * *

As his long legs carried him away from the Highlander's disturbing presence, Methos realized he really didn't have anyone he wanted to talk to in Paris. At least, not about this. He sighed and pulled his coat tighter around him, hunching his shoulders and walking almost head-down in the fog. He didn't really pay attention to where he was going, just let himself drift through the morning, trying to figure out what he wanted.

It seemed only natural that his steps would eventually lead him to Darius' old church. The man had been Methos' version of a father confessor for much of his latest life. He stared up at the building, at the stained-glass rosette over the door, and felt the loss of his old friend once again. _I failed you, too. I should have known of Horton's existence. I should have found some way to prevent your death._

_And what would that have solved?_ Darius' voice sounded so clear in Methos' mind; it was as if they were discussing the nature of good and evil once again, a conversation they had had for over five hundred years. _It was my time, Methos. You were not ready to be involved._

_I know. I just regret that it had to be that way._ Methos opened the ironwork gate into the garden and sat down on one of the dew-covered benches, smiling at himself. "Of all the ghosts that haunt my life, you are the only one that I want to conjure."

_What of Alexa?_ Darius' melodic voice questioned him. _Would you not want to conjure her?_

_In another time, perhaps, like all of my wives. All my regrets._

_You and your regrets. If you called it guilt, Methos, you would be as bad as MacLeod._

_Oh, please, not that._ Methos smiled to himself. _And what would you think of my present dilemma? You'd laugh, wouldn't you? No, I guess you'd just smile that amused, understanding, secret smile of yours, as though you knew all along what would happen, and say nothing at all. Your version of 'I told you so.'_

_Is that what you think? That I would have known it all along?_

_Didn't you? You were the one who kept telling me how special he was, how much I would like him. How much I needed to learn to trust one of my own kind, someone besides an old monk. I always thought that was a foolish notion. Trusting our own kind? We're a devious, solitary, desperate bunch. I wouldn't trust me, after all. Why should I ever even trust another Immortal, much less..._

_Much less what?_

_Nothing._

_My, my, Methos. Can't even think the unthinkable? That you might actually love one of your own kind? Is that so impossible?_

_It's absurd! I just wish you'd warned me--_

_Warned you about what?_

_That he was so fucking noble and so...beautiful._ Methos' throat closed as the image of Duncan emerging nearly naked from the shower floated behind his closed eyes.

Methos could almost hear the old priest's dry chuckle. _Would you really have believed me?_

The image of Darius vanished the way all his ghosts did, and Methos just sat for a moment, letting his suddenly roiling emotions settle down again.

* * *

The attendant unlocked the door to Benny's room, then locked it behind MacLeod after he stepped through. Confined in a straight jacket, Benny lay on a narrow bed in a sterile room painted institutional green, almost as much a piece of furniture as the tiny nightstand and hardened plastic chair. Looking at him, Mac felt his sorrow form a small, tight knot in his throat. Benny had always been a dapper, energetic character, full of life and laughter. As irritating as he had been, Benny had always...well, almost always...made Mac smile, and there were long decades of his own life that that was a rare and wonderful gift.

"Hey, Benny," Mac greeted as he settled into the chair after moving it closer to the bed. "How are you today?"

Benny's flesh hung loose on his normally plump face, and several days worth of beard darkened the pasty skin. Slowly, the head turned in his direction, and dilated eyes gradually focused on his visitor's face. A small smile curved the bowed mouth, and Mac finally saw some remnant of his old friend.

"Hey, Mac," Benny said softly.

Mac's heart leapt at the quiet, completely rational response. He reached out, squeezing the other man's arm reassuringly. "How are you feeling, Benny?"

"Feeling?" he looked slightly confused. "I dunno. I...where am I, Mac?" He looked around the room and then down at his confining restraints. "Hey! What the...? What's going on here!" he gasped, his eyes rolling around the room as he struggled against the jacket's straps.

"Easy! Easy, Benny!" Mac moved to sit on the bed, holding Benny firmly by the shoulders. "It's okay, you've been confused for a long time, but you're getting better. You need to stay calm. Breathe deeply and just look at me, okay? That's right, take another breath and relax. I won't let anyone hurt you. I'm here to help." He talked Benny through another few minutes of relaxation techniques, and finally the trembling eased, and the edge of hysteria retreated from his face and voice.

Mac explained what he knew in the simplest terms he could, constantly soothing his friend's obvious fear and anxiety and confusion. "All we need to do is assure the doctors that you're okay, that you won't hurt yourself or others, and I think we can get you out of here, but you have to stay calm, okay?"

Benny closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Duncan could see the panic ease a bit, not that he blamed Benny. He'd been held in a straightjacket before himself and remembered that terrible sense of claustrophobic restriction, which would only reinforce the stifling oppressiveness of the small room. He tried to give Benny something to focus on, keeping his voice soft and soothing, trying to lend Benny some strength, to provide an emotional anchor.

When it looked like Benny wouldn't shatter if he spoke, Mac finally asked the big question. "Do you remember what happened?"

Benny stiffened, then shook his head. "No," he whispered. "I don't remember anything."

"Are you sure? What is the last thing you remember happening?"

"I...I was running from this French thug, Andre Juneau, and his gang. I had, uh, appropriated some articles and expected to make a tidy little profit from the transaction, but the buyer never materialized and, well...anyway, Juneau was really pissed."

"And?" Mac prompted.

"Well, I...I was looking for a place to hole up for awhile. I think...oh, yeah, I went to your place, but you weren't home. That's it! Now I remember!" Benny's eyes brightened. "Then the phone rang and..." Benny's eyes grew clouded, and he stopped; the light overhead flickered for an instant, then settled down again, though its brightness seemed to fade.

"The phone? Whose phone?" Mac rubbed his hand over his arm, feeling a slight breeze. The air conditioning must have turned on. "My phone? You broke into my place?" He frowned. Damn the man. All this grief because Light-Fingered Benny couldn't keep his hands to himself.

"There was a voice," Benny whispered, his head cocking as though he could still hear it. "A voice asking for you, saying they had something. Something...of...inestimable value." Benny's face sagged as his expression went utterly blank. Mac's heart leapt when Benny's mouth opened, and his eyes rolled back in head. It was as if his soul had fled, leaving a husk, a shell of the man, behind.

Mac laid his hand on Benny's shoulder, gently shaking him. "Benny?" he asked quietly, afraid that Benny had slipped into a coma again. "Can you hear me, Benny? What's wrong?" He shivered, realizing the air conditioning had made the room quite cold; perhaps Benny had reacted to that. A soft rustling like leaves filled the room, as well, and the faint scent of mold and decay wafted through the air.

_Smells like something died in the ventilation ducts_ , Mac thought, _probably some poor creature last winter looking for heat_. He searched his mind for a reason for Benny's near-seizure, wondering if he should call for help. Maybe Benny was having an allergic reaction to that nasty smell, a type of anaphylactic shock. It wasn't unheard of for Immortals to have allergies, but his Immortal healing reaction should take care of it in short order. "Benny," he rubbed his hand along his friend's arm in reassurance and comfort. "It'll be okay in a minute. It won't be long before the air clears out."

With a gasp, Benny sat up, his flesh re-animated, though his skin still had a blue tinge, as if from cold, or lack of air. But the eyes that turned to MacLeod were deep, startling black -- obsidian marbles that absorbed all light. Benny's mouth moved, but the voice was a dry whisper, like the crackle of old, dead leaves. "Know me, Duncan MacLeod!" the voice rasped, the sound labored, the vocal cords ill-used. "Remember me."

Benny's head rolled back, and his mouth opened impossibly wide, like a snake swallowing some monstrous rodent. The bizarre rattling, choking sound that issued from his throat was part-scream, part-laugh. Slowly, the head rolled forward, as if reattaching itself to the body, and the obsidian eyes fixed on Mac. "I am Justice," it said, the voice now holding the echo of a blade on a whet stone. "Know me."

The straight jacket oozed and undulated as though whatever was within its confines was seeking some way to get closer to Mac. Mac pulled away from the bed, his blood freezing in his veins as he noticed that the straps had started to give way. The thing looked at him, watching him, letting Mac know he was prey.

Whatever this was, it wasn't Benny.

"I am Vengeance," the voice spoke again, stronger this time, though the sound still made Mac's teeth ache, and he forced himself not to flinch as the words beat down on him. "Centuries have passed, Duncan MacLeod. I will fulfill my promise." There was a tearing noise, and Mac saw that the creature had freed one arm from its restraints. His hand slid instinctively to his katana, only to fall away as the thing fell back against the bed, its eyes losing some of their darkness. It was as though some vestige of Benny pounded against them to get out.

"Still too soon," the voice hissed, the sound fading again. "I will find you again, MacLeod. You will pay for what you have done. A life for a life, it is said, and a love...for a love."

Mac's hand fell away from his sword as the voice died on a last gasping whisper, like a building collapsing in upon itself, leaving scattered rubble behind. He felt frozen, nailed to the floor, staring at the senseless husk, trying to understand what had happened -- and Benny screamed.

Not the sound a man makes, but the terrible, high, breathless, staccato wail of a child in pain, who can't understand why it hurts so bad. The noise sent chills straight up Mac's spine as he realized that it was even worse than that: it was the mindless cry of an animal in a trap, desperate enough to tear the flesh from its body in its need to be free.

One arm had been freed from its restraints, and Benny's hand snaked up to his face and tore at the flesh under his eyes, gouging his skin. "Get it out of me! Get it out!"

Benny, now. Not the other, as blood dripped down the gashes the jacket's metal fastenings had left.

The door behind him burst open, and the attendant rushed in, yelling. "Stop him. Damnit man, stop him!"

The words freed him, and Duncan started to go for Benny, but already there were a dozen people in place, pinning the thrashing man down and giving him drugs before they could tend to the wounds. The thrashing stopped, like a faucet being turned off, only for the screaming to start once again.

While no one could find a wound.

Over the noise, the first attendant turned to Mac and demanded, "What the fuck did you do to 'im?"

Mac backed out the door and found his long legs carrying him away from there as fast as they would go, those terrible sounds echoing in his head long after he had left the hospital far behind.

  


* * *

He drove, but it was a good half-hour before Mac was particularly aware of speed and direction, and he immediately slowed down. He had been flying along back roads towards Paris at better than 150 kph, the black antique Citroen squealing around corners, practically forcing other cars off the road.

His mind was refusing to come to grips with what he had witnessed. The possibility that there might be forces at work beyond human perception and understanding had always been an uneasy undercurrent in his propensity for straight line, logical thinking. His own existence, utterly unexplainable and unexplained, was a testament to such considerations. But voices beyond the grave? From over two hundred years ago? Every instinct told him it was nonsense. Perhaps Benny was picking up on something Mac himself had told him long ago. But those eyes! That hideous voice! The memory sent a convulsive shiver down his spine and he slowed further. Maybe it wasn't poor Benny at all. Maybe he, himself, was losing it. Maybe the Dark Quickening had infected his sanity so much that he was hallucinating.

He pulled off on a side road and stopped the car, the sudden silence revealing that he was breathing too fast, and he sat back, forced his hands off the steering wheel, and closed his eyes, silently relaxing into a meditation that slowed his heart rate and cleared his mind. Logic. He needed to apply a little logic. How could he separate Benny's psychosis -- or his own -- from reality and fact? What physical or historical evidence did he have that could put Benny's actions or words into some understandable framework? Had Benny known about what happened in 1746 in that little inn in Northern England? Had he somehow connected that event with whatever trauma had severed his hold on reality? Or was all this some figment of the sick imagination of one marginally sane four-hundred-year-old Scot?

He needed to talk to someone who understood the workings of the human mind, of the Immortal mind, and there were only three people he could think of....Well, four, but one was dead, his Voice of Perpetual Guilt reminded him. _Quiet_ , he admonished the familiar voice. _That doesn't help._ Who could he talk to? Joe...Well, things were better between them, but still unsettled, and, well, he wasn't at his best over the phone. And burdening Methos with his newly stirred doubts about his sanity was just as much of a stretch, given the tenuous nature of their friendship lately.

His last choice was Clare Winge. She was a psychologist, and she had studied Immortals. She could give him something close to an expert opinion.

_Ah, Sean. This would have been right up your alley, wouldn't it? I could have found a way to have Benny transferred to your facility with no one the wiser._

But after Sean's death, a medical care company had bought the retreat, and there was nothing else like it in the world.

Grimly, knowing that Clare was his only real choice, Mac started the car and pulled back onto the road. Perhaps _not_ knowing her very well was actually better. No ties, no historical baggage or preconceptions. A new, fresh point of view was just what was needed. But before that, some research to explain to himself what had happened, something other than that his sanity was slipping away. Maybe something Benny had heard once-upon-a-time. Some old Celtic legends, ancient songs or stories, maybe. Something that might make him think it was tied to Mac. Perhaps this mystery had its roots in the myths and mists of history other than his own. With a plan in hand, the black mood lifted slightly, and he drove towards Paris with a renewed sense of purpose.

* * *

The spaghetti sauce had come from a jar, but with a little bit of this and that, mushrooms, some extra garlic and oregano, it became a passable topping to the pasta she was planning to boil. And it was an easy, solitary dinner. She poured herself a glass of red wine, then after a slight hesitation, poured several glugs into the concoction. Couldn't hurt.

As the sauce bubbled on the stove and the frozen garlic bread warmed in the toaster oven, Clare sipped her wine and went back over the lists of institutions, private and public, that were candidates for continuing Benny's care. The public institutions were pretty easy to strike off without much further thought; for the most part, the care was adequate, but not exceptional. Most of the facilities were private and expensive, and she knew them more by reputation than direct knowledge, her job with the Watchers not leaving her with much time to socialize with her peers. But knowing MacLeod, cost was not a concern. Having centuries to amass a fortune was one of the many advantages of Immortality.

The building's front door buzzer was a raucous and annoying intrusion on her thoughts. Most of the time it was some stranger or delivery person hitting any and all the buttons in the hope that someone would be dumb enough to buzz them in without checking.

"Yeah?" she leaned on the button and shouted into the little speaker.

"Dr. Winge? Clare?"

"Yeah, who is it?"

"It's Duncan. Duncan MacLeod. I know I should have called first, but do you have a moment?"

Clare's finger flew off the button as though it gave her a shock.

"Shit!" she whispered. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit." She was in baggy sweats, no makeup, the apartment was a mess. Of all the times to have an Immortal decide to drop by. After a moment of hesitation, she pressed the button again.

"Uh, Duncan!" she said with an uneasy laugh. "What a surprise! You've caught me...uh, well, gee. Okay," she finished breathlessly. She couldn't bring herself to turn him away. The opportunity just might never present itself again. "Can you wait just a sec?" she continued. "Gimme a minute, and I'll buzz you in."

Without waiting for an answer she ran through the living room grabbing newspapers, magazines, dirty dishes, and clothes in her arms and dashed to the bedroom. She dumped the debris on the bed, threw off her sweats, grabbed a pair of jeans to struggle into, and frantically looked for a clean sweater, finally pulling on a black v-neck that she normally wore to parties. It was a little dressy, but what the hell.

Hoping he hadn't left in frustration, she finally ran back to the speaker. "Duncan?" she called. There were a few seconds of silence, and Clare banged her forehead on the wall in despair.

"Yes, Clare, I'm still here," the gentle baritone voice finally answered.

Clare wasn't sure if she was relieved or not as she hit the buzzer that opened the front door.

By the time he climbed the stairs to her flat and knocked at her door, she had managed to put on some lipstick and run a brush through her hair. She figured the rush would put enough color in her face that she didn't need any artificial help.

She opened the door...and stared.

"Hi," she finally managed to blurt.

"Hi." He smiled.

Clare was afraid her bones would melt.

"Can I come in?" he asked, one thick eyebrow raised in an amused query.

"Oh! Sure!" she waived him in, blushing so hard she knew she must radiate heat. "Uh, excuse the mess. I wasn't expecting company. I normally don't let it get this...well...uh...can I get you a drink? Wine or something?"

"Wine would be nice," he answered gently as he slipped out of his long coat. She reached for it, but he smiled and draped it over the back of the couch instead. Clare didn't know just how deeply red it was possible for her face to get, but she knew her limits were being pushed. Of course an Immortal wouldn't want anyone to take his coat; the swords were usually hidden there.

"Well," she said lamely, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet with nervousness. "Oh, the wine!" She darted into the kitchen.

"Nice flat." The nearness of his voice startled her, and she almost spilled the wine she was pouring. He was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, thick arms crossed over his chest, looking like...like Duncan MacLeod.

"Thanks," she answered, deciding that she needed to keep her mouth shut for a few minutes to let her brain catch up with her racing libido. She even managed to hand him the glass without dropping it. She forced herself to take a few slow, deep breaths. Now if she could just avoid looking at the man, maybe she could manage to put more than two coherent words together.

* * *

Duncan tried to relax, but he still felt tense from seeing Benny. He suppressed a shiver at the thought, not wanting to dwell on it too much. Either it had happened, or it hadn't; there were no other choices. He found himself desperately wanting to believe in the supernatural at this moment, because the alternative was that he himself was losing his grip on reality.

And insanity, when it came right down to it, was Duncan's biggest fear. The first Immortal he'd ever met had been slightly insane, and the second, more so. If it weren't for Connor -- sometimes manic, sometimes brooding, but always with a keen mind -- Duncan wasn't sure he would have survived those first years of Immortality. It just seemed like the longer you lived, the greater the weight of the years and the more likely you were to crack.

He took a deep breath and let it out again, not really seeing Clare as she buzzed around the room, offering to take his coat and getting him a glass of wine.

Then there was Methos. _The oldest of us and still the most sane,_ he thought with a grin, before it slid off into an uncomfortable moue. Methos had made many compromises to keep his sanity and his life, Duncan could see that, but it still rankled that he seemed to make those choices so easily.

"I hope that's not for anything I've done." Clare's voice pulled him back from his thoughts, and he realized how hard he'd been scowling.

"Sorry. No, it's not you. I was just thinking about Benny." Clare nodded toward the sofa, and Duncan perched on the edge, curling around his wine. "I went to see him today."

"Did something else happen?" Clare settled down next to him, her eyes sparkling with interest.

Duncan swirled the wine in his glass and took a sip. "You could say that. Started talking about a woman who's been dead for two hundred years."

"Well, that can't be that unusual, can it? Don't you -- don't Immortals -- have vivid memories?"

"At times, yes. But this was different. Benny's too young to have known anything about her."

"Hmmm." Clare sat back against the couch, obviously thinking. "What about Quickenings? Don't they transfer memories at times?"

"Impressions, really. Rarely anything more specific." He slid back on the couch next to her, turning so that they faced each other. "And the woman he talked about was mortal, and there were no other Immortals around. I would have felt them if there were."

She laid a hand on his arm. "So no one could have witnessed what happened?"

Duncan shook his head. "No, not a one."

"Perhaps a story, then, told by the survivors. Passed down as a legend, or tale of revenge?" She jerked her hand back as if she'd only just realized she'd touched him

Duncan smiled at her, feeling almost indulgent, and placed his own hand on her arm, giving it alight squeeze before dropping his hand again. _No need to be scared, Clare, we aren't monsters._ She was so bright, and her eyes were so full of concern. He nodded, acknowledging her idea. "I spent the better part of the afternoon searching through my own records and archives, trying to find something he might also have run across. There are a few old tales and legends that are a little eerie in their similarity, but that seems so unlikely. Benny was no historian or intellectual."

"It's not necessary that he have read it or sought the knowledge out, Duncan. So much of what we truly know is picked up without our even realizing it. Maybe Benny picked up on something while he was in a fugue state and merely reiterated it." A little more boldly, she laid her hand on Duncan's forearm again. "I'm sure there's some rational explanation."

Her words were like a benediction, echoing his hopes, easing his fears, and Duncan finally let himself relax. He finished the wine and set the glass down on the end table, turning to Clare and smiling his first genuine smile of the day. "So, how has your day been?"

Clare laughed. It bubbled up out from somewhere far below her belly button and came out as an embarrassing giggle at first. But when Duncan cocked his eyebrow at her questioningly, it evolved into a genuine laugh, until she gasped for lack of breath.

"I'm glad I was amusing, Clare, but it would be helpful if you told me why, so maybe I can do it again," Duncan said, matching her smile. "You have such a wonderful laugh, after all."

The compliment startled her into silence.

"I don't know," she replied at last. She rolled the wineglass against her cheek after taking a sip, as if savoring the coolness. "The last couple of days have been like something out of an adventure movie. Finding Benny, seeing Adam again, meeting you, of all people. And now having an Immortal just drop by my apartment. I don't know," she gasped slightly. "I feel like Alice stepping through the looking glass."

Duncan leaned back, putting one arm across the back of the couch. "I understand. Sometimes when I think about my life as it might look from someone else's perspective, I realize just how bizarre it would seem." He turned back towards her, trying to make her see that their life wasn't all glamour, wanting her to see him as a person. He didn't question why it seemed so important that Methos' friend like him, but he knew that it mattered. "To tell the truth, most of my time is spent in very mundane activities. Doing the wash, fixing the barge, paying bills, spending time with and looking out for my friends. Don't put me on a pedestal, Clare. I need a friend, not an admirer."

"Can't I be both?" The words popped out of her mouth, startling Mac.

"Only if I can be yours, as well," he answered. It was almost a planned response.

For a moment there was crystalline silence between them. Then Clare smiled, a small, flirtatious gesture, and Mac felt everything fall into place. For the first time since he'd visited Benny, he felt like he knew where the road was leading, like he had returned to solid ground.

And that was a very good thing.

She poured them both more wine, and Mac studied Clare Winge. He tried to look at her objectively, but as usual, he couldn't manage it for long. Clare simply felt good sitting next to him; he understood why Methos would be drawn to her. And she did have a _lovely_ laugh.

_Watch yourself, MacLeod_ , he scolded himself. _If Methos wants Clare, keep your clumsy mitts off_.

A change of topic seemed in order, before he dug himself in deeper.

* * *

"How long have you known Adam?" he asked abruptly.

"Seems like a lifetime," Clare answered. "We met at Oxford, where he was getting his Ph.D. in linguistics, and I was finishing my doctorate in psychology. Do you know he has two doctorates and is working on a third? I've never known someone who loved books and libraries as much as that man."

"I've noticed." Duncan smiled into his wineglass as though at a private amusement, and Clare wondered what MacLeod really thought about Adam. How did an Immortal and a Watcher-researcher become good friends, anyway? She'd have to ask Mr. Dawson about that the next time she saw him.

Duncan took a sip of his wine, and Clare thought she had never seen such strong hands. Fascinated, Clare found she couldn't look away, almost missing the question he'd asked. "Sorry?

"Are you and Adam...?" Duncan's question was left hanging, but the meaning was obvious. He wanted to know if she and Adam were...lovers.

"Me and Adam?" Clare heard her voice rise to a slightly awkward squeak. "No!" She waved her hand in denial. "Oh, no. We're just friends. There was a time there when I thought there might be something more, but.... You know, he was involved with someone not too long ago, but she died." She shook her head, feeling a little sad on Adam's behalf. "Awful for him, I'm sure. But he..."

Duncan was shaking his head knowingly as he looked at her intently, and Clare felt like she was falling into a deep, deep well of dark brown irises. When she pulled away, she found she didn't want to talk about Adam any more. "You know, sometimes I think he does everything, says everything, for some kind of effect, like life were some kind of chess game, and we were all just pieces on the board." Her mouth tightened as she sipped absentmindedly at her wine, then she forced herself to relax. There were other, more interesting things to discuss than Adam Pierson's desire to manage her life. Things like where Duncan might be sleeping tonight. The audacity of the thought made her heart race.

She tilted her head to the side and smiled at him. "Say, do you want some dinner? It's not much, just some pasta, but there's plenty for two, and it's almost ready."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude," Duncan moved as if to stand.

"No!" Clare waved him back down. "I mean...really. I'd really like for you to stay." She put her hand on his thigh as if to hold him in place. "Really. Stay."

Duncan covered her hand with his own and smiled back. "I'd love to."


	8. Chapter 8

Lack of light and lack of Presence told Methos that Mac wasn't on the barge. He slid in through the main door anyway and down into the salon. He flipped on the lights and stoked up the fireplace. He felt edgy for some reason; he couldn't make himself sit while the silence pressed against his chest like a fallen cart. He pulled a beer out of the fridge and drank a few swallows. Wtill unsettled, he set it down on the table in front of the couch, staring out the porthole.

Mac should have been back by now.

He shook himself and picked up the morning's paper, then tossed it aside and grabbed his beer instead. The damned silence tormented him, noticeable for what was missing, rather than what was there. Determined to do something about that, at least, he headed for the stereo and tore through the current choices in music. He grinned as he realized how much they had changed since the last time he was here, his movements finally slowly as his thoughts found something to do other than worry. Mac seemed to have joined the modern era at last, at least as far as music was concerned. Oh, most of the CDs were ballads, or told a story of some sort -- were rock operas an improvement over regular opera? Not to mention the musicals -- there wasn't a single 'alternative rock' selection to be found. He stuffed the last pile of CDs back where he'd found them and turned on the stereo, just to see what Mac had on. Almost instantly he turned it off again, his face in a grimace. He couldn't deal with Celtic folk songs about the tragic death of a Highwayman and his lover right now. He'd given Mac more credit for modernizing--

Although...

Methos blinked and turned on the CD again, listening to the words and skimming the liner notes he found nearby. The song was one with countless variations in over three hundred years of folk history, a simple ghost story, set after Culloden. Why on earth would Mac be listening to something like that? Wasn't he depressed enough as it was?

Methos' breath caught in his throat as the singer described the button found in the dead girl's hand, a button she'd pulled from her rapist's red coat.

A button that sounded like the one they'd pulled from Benny's hand.

Picking up the beer bottle, Methos let the music play as he quickly crossed over to Mac's computer and turned it on. He'd track down the original story for this, find out if there were some sort of connection to what had happened to Benny. And when Mac arrived they could talk about what Mac knew and see if they could piece the whole thing together.

Folk singers. He grinned to himself. Keeping tradition alive.

* * *

Night comforted her, the darkness cloaking her movements as she struggled to free herself. This body reacted slowly, too slowly, possibly from so much time spent waiting for her prey to spring the trap, although this was, by far, the most durable body she had yet found. All the others had been eventually destroyed by the heat of her hatred, shriveling away as she fed on their horror and fear. Only this one took the punishment, withstood the consuming fire that had left all her former hosts in ashes, but even this remarkable body had limits. If it had been stronger, she might have had MacLeod the first time he had come. Instead she'd had to take precious time waiting, recovering, using her own energy to rebuild weakened muscles that could no longer support the body's weight.

She had been so very close, had almost had him once today. She could still smell him on her skin, his scent lingering in the air like seaweed drying in the ocean's air.

She flexed her hand, making it into a claw, then relaxing it, testing her strength; soon, very soon, she would be free. She had already managed to get out of the jacket, leaving it draped around her while she recovered even more. But to do that, she would first need to get back her strength....

The light snapped on, and she looked away, the sudden brilliance sending a sharp pain through her skull. She heard the noise of the pill cart and snarled; she would not let them drug her again, not now, not when she was so close to finding him.

She felt it, then. The pull, like a thread drawn taught, close to breaking. This one had seen him, touched him, wanted him. He had fooled her, too, with those dark eyes and that sweet smile. Stupid woman. An easy choice then. This one.

She jerked slightly as the other in her mind tried to pull away, made another feeble attempt to take back his body, but Benny had been a weak soul when he had owned this flesh and was now easily shunted aside. She walled him off, letting his panicked chatter become part of the background of this place, a soft counterpoint to what she needed to do. His fear eased her gnawing hunger somewhat, but it was too small, too constant to provide the real nourishment or strength she needed. She dined on his spirit only when the need became too great. As durable as Benny's body was, she knew she had to take care if she wanted it to last long enough to reach MacLeod, to do what must be done. The culmination of her long, restless hibernation and years of searching was achingly close. She had to be careful that this very nearness to her ultimate goal did not make her lose the determination, the discipline and patience that had gotten her this far.

"I heard you had a bad day yesterday, Benny. Mr. MacLeod upset you, did he?" the white-coated woman nattered. "Well, we'll just give you a little something to keep you calm so that if he comes again, we won't have any more nasty scenes, okay? We don't want him to think we aren't taking proper care of you, now do we?"

Feigning sleep, she invisibly worked herself completely free as the woman puttered next to her, the clatter of needles and pills on the cart the only sound in the room. There was pain, a dull throbbing counterpoint in her shoulder and arm where she had damaged this body removing the straightjacket not long ago. But mere pain could not dampen the eager anticipation, the tempting nearness of such a tantalizing source of the only pleasure she had found since the day of her death and rebirth so long ago. All it needed was to be brought to the surface, that wonderful surge of life and power that was finer than the most delicious banquet, more intoxicating than the rarest wine.

She could smell it, her mouth flooding with saliva in anticipation. She could feel it, her skin tingling as every nerve responded, every receptor open and ready, eager for new energy, new life. She took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. She moved, her body shuddering with need. It had been so long, too long in this nearly lifeless husk, devoid of any real nourishment and flavor, the carcass sucked clean of any real emotion, of spirit, of fear and terror. Nothing left in it to assuage the endless hunger that had haunted her for over 200 years. But still, she must be careful, discreet, subtle...and make it last.

But the call was so very strong, the temptation too great; she simply could not resist, reaching out for just the tiniest sample. The white-coated woman stiffened, a flash of unease crossing her face as she whipped around, looking for something -- but there were only the shadows in the corners of the otherwise empty room.

Oh, it tasted so good, that small spike of fear, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough...just a little more. She reached again, intending just another taste...and somewhere deep in what was left of her soul, she knew it to be a mistake.

Blind, searing need washed over her in a crashing wave, and she could hold back no longer. She surged out of the bed with a feral snarl, grabbing the woman, pushing her to the wall and ripping at her clothes, throwing them aside as she dug her fingers deep into the flesh of the woman's chest, now fluttering with panic. Oh, yes! She stopped, closed her eyes, and reached out with every sense, feeling the thrumming, frantic heartbeat underneath one hand while the other closed the mouth which had opened wide in preparation for an ear-splitting scream.

The woman jerked and fought, her choking, muffled cries trying to escape the palm wrapped so tightly over her mouth. This one still believed she might survive, had the arrogance to hope for rescue, so she waited, pressing all her weight against the trembling, writhing body, staring into her victim's eyes, letting her read the fate reflected back from the endlessly black orbs that absorbed all light, all life.

Ah, at last. There it was, pouring off of the woman like the wash of flop-sweat that erupted from the pale, trembling flesh. Terror. Unmitigated, helpless horror. Her own heart sped, adrenaline charging through her veins as she bathed in it, wallowed in the sweet anticipation of it. Still she waited, watching the eyes as they dilated millimeter by millimeter, sharing this precious moment. It built steadily, her own throat closing in sympathy with the breathless panic, the paralyzing fear, and most delicious of all, the sure and certain knowledge that her prey was going to die. Nothing could stop it; nothing could stop her.

Her lips pulled away from her teeth as she waited for that singular moment when panic and horror were pushed to a point where the brain almost shut down completely, then dug her hand deeper into the chest, feeling her victim's agony, relishing it, hooking fingers around cartilage and ribs. The woman's ever-expanding terror charged the air, raising the hair on her arms as blood spilled and spattered over the walls.

As always, the human frame was both amazingly strong and astonishingly vulnerable. It took real effort to yank the bones and sinews free, especially with the woman slapping at her and still trying to scream. The muffled, high-pitched noise eventually stopped, and the body under her hands sagged as she worked through the resisting flesh and found the prize. With a cry of triumph, her fist closed, and she pulled. She let the body drop away, feeling Benny's face broaden in a wide smile at the ruby heart that lay in her hand, still steaming and trembling with life.

Hot blood dripped down her arm as she bit into it, the bright nova of the woman's stark, sudden terror and pain as delectable as the flesh she consumed. She trembled with relief. The song of that fresh death expanded her senses, and everything was suddenly sharp and clear, every sound and smell a symphony of sensation. It energized her, nourishing her even more than Benny's horrified screams, echoing dimly within that part of their mind where she allowed him residence. She drank in the rest of the woman's soul as she ate, relishing an entire lifetime of fears, large and small, remorse, despair, and failure, letting it renew her long-depleted strength. When there was nothing left of the woman's essence, she let the rest of the uneaten heart fall from her fingers then wiped her hands clean on the white coat the attendant had worn, the one with the nametag reading "Dr. Fieldstone" still attached.

Then, like a hound scenting its prey, she headed directly out the door and through the first unbarred window she could find. She ran for the deepest shadows in the perimeter forest and sank into them, pulling the night to her, pooling the darkness around her stolen flesh like a cloak, hiding herself from mortal sight.

Her newly charged senses were blissfully aware of the screams and terrified cries as the doctor's body was discovered, and she felt almost drunk with the fear she could feel in the air, enjoying the chaos and destruction of what she had done. Flush with the renewal of life...of death...she turned to the main road. Now for MacLeod...at last.

* * *

It had been a remarkable evening. Clare felt like she had managed to find reasonably intelligent things to say, while Duncan had seemed genuinely interested. Whenever the conversation lapsed, he somehow managed to turn the conversation to a new topic, or told a story that broke the tension and offered her an opportunity to add her own experience and observations. As a result, she ended up basically telling Duncan her life story from the time she had met Adam, when what she had intended was the opposite.

The pasta was eaten and the second bottle of wine nearly finished by the time that realization sank in.

"You're blushing," Duncan observed with a smile.

Clare shook her head and put down her wineglass, figuring she'd had more than enough if she expected to keep her wits, or anything else, about her. "I guess you do that all the time," she said.

"Do what?"

"Draw other people out without ever saying anything about yourself."

The slightly abashed 'you caught me' look on Duncan's face was worth the embarrassment. The broad shoulders shrugged. "Old habits," he said by way of explanation.

Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the soft candlelight she had dared use on the small dining table, maybe it was just the heady knowledge of who he was, or the powerful sexuality he oozed from every pore, but Clare saw her hand float down to cover his and heard her voice say in husky tones, "You don't have to pretend with me, Duncan. You can feel free to be who and what you are."

If she had known the power those words would have, Clare decided, she would have used them before, because Duncan looked down, and she saw his throat contract when he swallowed before he answered. "For someone like me, that's a rare and wonderful sentiment, Clare," he finally said in a near whisper.

It was the first time she had seen him as fully human, as a man carrying a load of grief and pain that most would find unbearable. His hand moved and gripped her own, making it seem small and frail when she never thought of them as such. "Thank you," he said simply.

Her mouth went dry. "You're...you're welcome," she stammered, then looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just..."

"Just what?"

Clare took a deep breath. "I've been a fool," she confessed. "I've thought of you as someone not really human, not truly real. It was thoughtless and shallow and...I'm ashamed."

Duncan shook his head and stood, wandering over to a window and staring out into the night sky. "I wonder sometimes if you're not right. That I'm not really human. How can anyone who does what we do for century after century be really human?"

Clare walked over to him and laid her hand on his back, trying to somehow express what she felt. "That you ask the question provides the answer, Duncan. Every Immortal is a killer, a cannibal at some level, feeding off the Quickening of others of your own kind." He turned around to look at her, his eyes troubled, and Clare wanted to smooth out her words in some way, make them easier for him to deal with. "But what you are doesn't define you; it's not all that you are. Immortals aren't animals. You can think. You can feel. You can reason. You don't have to simply react." She placed her finger over his lips, stilling his response before he could make one, then dropped her hand to her side. "Yes, some of you are insane and have chosen to not to worry about what is right, or wrong, or anything other than themselves. But a precious few," she placed a hand on his chest, "like you, somehow keep their humanity intact, sometimes even more strongly than those of us who are not put to such terrible tests."

Duncan looked like he wanted to put his arms around her, but instead he was careful and restrained, only touching her shoulder. "You make me feel very human, Clare."

Clare realized how much she wanted him to touch her. She looked up into sad, dark eyes and found herself leaning in, reaching up, running her hand through the thick hair at his neck, pulling him close. His lips were just as soft and warm and wonderful as she had imagined. She opened her mouth to invite him in, but he gently pushed her away.

For about three heartbeats she thought the humiliation would kill her, but the expression on his face wasn't of the 'I like you, but can't we just be friends' variety.

"Clare..."

"What is it, Duncan? Whatever you want to say, it's okay."

"Adam. He's a friend. I don't want...I can't..." He sighed. "It wouldn't be right."

She puzzled on his words, a little confused, then suddenly barked out, "You think Adam and I...?" as she understood and laughed at the incredible joke. "Oh, Duncan, I told you, Adam and I have never been more than friends." She shrugged. "I admit that I've tried flirting from time to time, but he throws up higher walls and more barriers than I know how to get around." She dared to touch a loose curl just at the curve of Duncan's neck. "He doesn't let anyone get close. Doesn't ever want anyone to know who he really is. I can't even imagine doing this." She reached her arms around him and pulled him to her, encouraging Duncan to mold himself to her body. She felt herself lifted slightly off the floor, until only her toes were touching. She would have smiled if her mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied.

* * *

Methos jerked awake, old dreams settling along his spine, waiting for some other night to spread their poison. The room looked wrong, and it took an instant for his mind to resort and regroup itself into some sort of order. He'd crawled into Mac's bed last night when he'd found the words on the monitor too blurry to read anymore. He'd intended a quick rest, one from which he'd thought to be awakened by the Highlander's presence, but nighttime appeared to have come and gone without Mac's arrival.

Frowning, Methos sat up and pulled the blanket off, then quickly pulled on his jeans. Mac should have been home by now; something must have come up. Or someone.

For an instant he froze, then shook his head at his own imagination. He knew there wasn't anyone in town at the moment. He'd checked the Watcher database last night, and there'd been no Immortals reported in the Paris vicinity for the last three weeks. So, if it were a someone...

A twinge of jealousy arced through his gut, and Methos quickly turned it aside. Nothing to be jealous of at the moment. Mac's life was his own, and they were barely readjusting to being friends. No, maybe Mac had found something, remembered something, decided to check into it further and ended up spending the night in a hotel somewhere when it was too late to drive back.

Meanwhile, the information he had really couldn't wait.

He slipped on his shoes and debated leaving Mac a note. _Fuck it,_ he thought to himself. If Mac couldn't be bothered to come home at night, Methos didn't have to bother to leave him a note. And the fact that he even thought of writing one bothered him more than he wanted to admit, honing his anger even more.

Grabbing his coat, Methos stalked off the barge, just waiting for his chance to talk to Duncan MacLeod

* * *

He rang Clare's bell, leaning on it with all of the unreasoning anger and frustration he felt toward Mac.

"Yes?" Clare's familiar voice answered.

"Clare, it's Adam. Got a minute? It's important."

"Adam?" she sounded surprised, a vague tone of alarm managing to make it over the tinny speaker. "I...wasn't expecting you."

"I found something. It's about Benny."

"I, uh...just a minute."

Adam stood on the landing, feeling like an idiot. Clare's response had all the trademarks of an interrupted liaison. As the door buzzer sounded and he let himself in, he dismissed that notion. Based on Clare's conversations over the past few days, she wasn't involved with anyone. He had probably just caught her in pajamas and hair curlers.

Her smile was small and tense when she met him at the door dressed in a colorful silk kaftan. "Adam, this really isn't a good time," she said as he brushed past her and into her small living room.

"What's the matter, Clare," Methos shot her a teasing grin. "Got a lover in the bedroom?"

The flush on her face and the momentary silence was all the answer Methos needed to draw some very awkward conclusions. "Oh. Sorry. Hey, it's okay," he smiled at her obvious discomfort and embarrassment. He shrugged his shoulders, realizing it was indeed okay. Kind of a relief, really. He had begun to feel an odd, panicky sense of obligation around Clare, as though he was expected to do something he wasn't really ready to do. It would make their friendship much more comfortable to know the sex 'thing' was out of the picture. "I can come back later, but I really need to talk to you and MacLeod. I waited at Mac's place last night but he never came home. I think I have at least a notion...of...what..." his voice drifted off. His eyes had been wandering as he paced the room and had settled on a silver hair tie of Celtic design sitting on the coffee table. He reached out and picked it up, letting the loop slide over his index finger. "No wonder he didn't come home last night," he said, more to himself than to Clare.

Clare had been standing near the door, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "He's, uh, out getting some fresh rolls for breakfast. He should be back any minute." Her hint that he leave was obvious.

"You work fast," Methos said quietly. As last his golden eyes traveled up to meet hers in an unreadable expression. "And I guess it wouldn't have been too hard..." his mouth quirked into a hard, humorless smile. "I mean too difficult to seduce him. At least you're in lots of company. He's probably bedded half the women on the European continent by now." The spiteful words escaped despite his horrified attempt to stop them. He dropped the hair tie onto the table where it landed with a heavy thud. "Was it everything you expected?"

"Stop it, Adam!" Clare hissed. "You never even hinted that you wanted to go out with me." Her fingers dug tightly into the flesh of her upper arms. "You have absolutely no reason to be jealous. The most I've gotten from you in the past ten years was a peck on the cheek in the bar the other day." She took a deep breath, deliberately relaxing her hands before she managed to bruise herself.

Methos stared at her, his gut churning, and he didn't want to think about why, so he lashed out instead. "Me? Jealous? Please, Clare. Has one night with Duncan MacLeod given you delusions of grandeur?"

"I think you'd better leave," she said coldly, but Methos just draped himself on her couch with an unpleasant smile.

"I don't think so. You dragged me into this, Clare. You wanted my help." He paused, knowing that he'd wanted to help Mac far more than he'd wanted to help Clare. He tried to reign in his anger; she was right, he was being jealous. He had no right to object to anything that either Mac or Clare had done. He took a deep breath and let it back out slowly. "No, you're right. As soon as I get a chance to talk to you and Mac, I'm outta here. In the meantime, I don't suppose you could spare a cup of coffee?" He schooled his features back into genial graduate student mode and slammed the door on his other feelings. Get Benny taken care of, make sure Mac was safe, and then he could get out of town. It'd been a while since he'd visited Tibet. The cold might do him good. At least he had been saved from what would have been a horrifyingly humiliating confession to a man who obviously had no interest in him.

Clare closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Adam," she finally said, obviously as intent on keeping up the social niceties as he was. "I didn't intend for this to happen, but..." she flushed at Methos' crooked smile and cocked eyebrow, "Well, maybe I wanted it to happen, but I never expected it! He came by last night, so upset and confused, and one thing led to another..."

"It always does, doesn't it?" Methos interrupted. "And Duncan is so endearingly vulnerable, isn't he?" His tone started out harsh, but softened as he spoke, becoming almost wistful.

He had wanted to spend the night with Duncan MacLeod. His obsessive fascination with the man just had to end.

* * *

Duncan used the key that Clare had given him to let himself into the apartment building. He felt disjointed this morning, knowing he shouldn't have let things go so far, so fast. But Clare was a lovely woman and seemed to welcome him eagerly; they'd both wanted to be together. The more they'd talked -- more frequently about her college life and the time she'd spent with Adam than anything else -- the more comfortable he'd felt with her, and the easier it became to just slide into bed together.

But in four hundred years, the morning after had never gotten any better; in some ways, it only got worse. He couldn't really lay the blame on hormones anymore, not like a modern teenager could. No matter how many centuries passed, sometimes sex just felt good.

And Clare had felt very, very good.

He smiled a little, remembering the feel of her flesh under his hands, her little moans as he entered her, the way she'd held him -- clutched him -- as she came. He bounded up the last few steps to her apartment, faltering as he felt another Immortal's Presence, knowing who it must be. Silently, he opened the door to the apartment, determined not to feel like some schoolboy brought before the headmaster. "Hey, Clare," he said as he closed the door behind him, "I wasn't sure what kind you liked so...I..." his voice drifted off at the sight before him.

Methos, looking deceptively mild, gazed at him from a sprawl on the couch while Clare stared uncomfortably at the floor, the walls, anywhere but at either of the two men in her apartment. For a moment, Mac was jolted by the memory of the day before, when Methos had comfortably filled the barge making breakfast, and how different that felt from now.

"Thank you, Duncan," Clare said, her voice practically dripping sarcasm as she directed her gaze at Methos. "Adam was just leaving."

"Actually," Methos' smile was irritatingly benign, "Mac looks like he brought enough food for an army. I'm sure there's more than enough to share. After all, we're all such good friends."

The look Methos shot at him arrowed straight into his gut and festered there. It was all so different from the day before, when Methos had teased him and been...a little more open. Now, here he was again, shuttered off from everything around him and tightly drawn into himself.

Clare didn't look much better. She couldn't meet Methos' eyes, either.

Duncan looked back and forth between the two, his stomach twisting into knots. Had Clare lied? Had Methos been interested in her? He closed his eyes and swallowed. He'd never intended... Flushed and angry, he opened his eyes, refusing to look away from what he had done. Clare and Methos were both miserable; he should never have spent the night. Despite his promise to himself not to feel like a schoolboy, that was exactly how he felt, which made him even angrier. The words that came into his mind were not ones that could or should be said in front of Clare, though, and he had never had Methos' gift for subtle double entendres, so he opted to say nothing. He moved into the kitchen and unloaded the rolls and muffins, still warm in the sack, onto a plate, ignoring the steps he heard behind him. When he turned, Methos was lounging in the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with a tight, unreadable expression, completely unlike the open admiration that Mac remembered from the day before.

"I assume you came for a reason other than to mooch breakfast, Adam," Mac managed to say in a quiet, even tone. He felt a little stir of pride at that, knowing Methos wanted to goad him into reacting, but he wasn't quite sure what he had done. All that analysis about what had happened at breakfast the day before rolled back over him. What the hell was going on here?

He turned, speaking softly so that only Methos could hear. "Look, if I've overstepped something with Clare, if you were planning on..." He took a breath to try to get his thoughts straight, feeling his face flush with heat. "I didn't intend to get in your way, I mean. I can back off. Right here. Right now."

Methos cocked his head, a smile twitching one side of his mouth. "And break Clare's heart?" He shook his head. "No, Mac, I wouldn't dream of it. No one deserves to have their feelings trampled like that."

"What are you two whispering about?" Clare demanded from the doorway. "If you guys can't play nice together, I won't let you play at all."

Feelings trampled. Duncan stared at Methos, trying to figure out what he'd meant, but Methos just kept staring back. Not a blink, not a movement to indicate what the right or the wrong answer was, or whether he was being sarcastic or not.

There were times, Mac reflected, when he really just wanted to haul off and slug the other Immortal a good one. Not that he would, but every now and again, it seemed like the simplest response.

"Guys?" Clare said. Duncan was the first to break the stare, and he caught the look of surprise on her face. He turned away from them both, busying himself with the rolls.

The silence was crushing. Duncan poured the coffee and set out plates. Clare passed out silverware, finally coughing, then clearing her throat. "Well. Duncan." Her voice was a little high. She swallowed and started again. "Adam said he had found out something important about Benny." She looked pointedly at Adam, elbowing him when he ignored her and continued to meticulously spread a thick layer of cream cheese onto his roll.

"Ah, yes. Another dear friend of yours." Methos looked up at Duncan as he took a bite of his roll and chewed carefully. "You have so many."

Mac just looked at his blueberry muffin, then picked it up, tearing it into chunks. As Methos droned on about ancient myths and legends of Northern England in his Oxford lecturer's voice, Mac found his mind wandering, considering the speaker rather than the words.

He should have talked to Methos last night.

He felt completely torn. He should have trusted Methos, told him what he'd seen. Surely, in five thousand years, the Immortal would have seen something of the supernatural, if any such thing existed. Or his logical mind could have helped Duncan winnow out the reasons his mind might play tricks like this. Perhaps he was just particularly susceptible to suggestion. Look what happened with Garrick. The man had practically driven him mad with those damn visions of death. Why was he so afraid of showing Methos the slightest hint of weakness?

_Because,_ he answered himself, _there can be only one._ To show weakness and vulnerability before an enemy shames one...

Mac dropped the rest of his breakfast on the plate and pushed the uneaten pile aside. His stomach clenched and tightened as he realized just whose voice had spoken that in his mind. After four hundred years, he was still haunted by the ghost of his father. Why not a two-hundred-year-old ghost, as well?

'There can be only one' was a hunter's excuse. Most Immortals didn't really care about the prize. Most wanted to just live in peace. He and Methos could work it out, stay together, and not take each other's heads. Their biology didn't define them; they could learn to adapt.

He wanted Methos around for a long, long time.  
  
He smiled at the image of Methos reclined next to him, watching Richie race his starships. He looked up at the sound of Methos' voice to share the fantasy and realized he'd lost the thread of the whole conversation; he re-focused his attention on what Methos had to say.


	9. Chapter 9

Methos was glaring at him. Sorting through what had just been said, Mac realized he had missed the whole speech. "Sorry," he apologized. "I didn't quite get that last bit."

"Then try actually listening next time." Methos reached over and grabbed the morning's paper, putting it up like a shield between them. "I'm not going to repeat it again, so you'll just have to ask Clare." The rustling of the paper just added to the surrealness of the morning, and Mac glanced over at Clare, whose attention seemed fixated on the front page news.

He glanced at the headline. "Grisly Asylum Murder and Escape." The picture that accompanied it was an old photo of Dr. Fieldstone -- Benny's doctor.

Mac grabbed the paper from Methos' hands and spread it out on the table so that they could all read it. The three of them huddled over the account; Methos was the first to lean back.

"I don't think this was coincidence, Mac."

Mac looked at him, caught by the tensing of his mouth, the slight dilation of black pupils inside hazel irises as Methos went back to the news story again, reading it through slowly, carefully. This time when Methos looked back at him, Mac looked away, unable to handle the intensity in those eyes, scanning the room restlessly as his mind absorbed the horrifying concept of an ancient nightmare become real.

But when Methos spoke his voice was gentle and understanding, and Mac realized how well Methos knew him, knew his propensity for accepting responsibility -- and blame.

"Mac, whatever Benny is or isn't doing, you aren't responsible for his behavior. Sometimes an Immortal just snaps, can't stand the pressure of all the years, of all the killing..."

"He's right, Duncan," Clare chimed in. "This probably has absolutely nothing to do with you. Just because Benny was your friend--"

"He's still my friend," Mac said, his voice flat and hard, suddenly knowing what he had to do. "And this has everything to do with me."

Clare's brow furrowed as she scanned the article again. "Just a second," she whispered and pushed herself away from the table. "I need to go look at something."

Mac looked over at Methos, who stared back at him. "You're right. Killing that doctor was no coincidence."

Methos shook his head. "Given our past histories, it seems very unlikely." His eyes grew large and round as he caught some detail in the article. "Mac..." he whispered and looked up, "what ever this thing is that wants you--"

"It doesn't want me," Mac hissed, "only the women close to me."

Methos glanced down the hallway, then back at Mac. "Like Clare?"

Mac nodded slowly. "Like Clare."

"That makes sense. This doctor was flirting with you, as I recall." Methos shook his head, his thin lips pressed into a hard line. "You are the biggest fucking pain-in-the-ass that ever walked this planet, do you know that?"

Mac felt a brief pang of guilt at the confirmation of what had happened last, but he just smiled slightly and said, "I have been called worse, you know."

Clare bustled back into the kitchen, interrupting the awkward discussion before it could go any further. "Here," she said, tossing a file folder of notes on the table. "It's some of my research on serial killers. This particular set of murders was never solved." She slid into a chair and picked up another muffin. "And the M.O. sounds a lot like what happened to the victim at the asylum."

Methos pulled the documents to him and started riffling through them, occasionally asking Clare a question in a low, thoughtful voice. Mac watched them, admiring the way they interacted, like a well-managed team. He finally ate a bit of the food he'd been toying with, surprised to find that it actually had taste and texture. Like a dog with a bone, though, he could not let go of what had happened, of what he had done.

What had he been thinking last night?

Had he been thinking at all?

He sat quietly, listening, catching a word, a sentence now and again as they talked. It was funny, but being with Clare last night...he'd almost forgotten how nice it could be to hold someone warm and accommodating against him. Recently, all of his relationships had been the more prickly sort, like his off-again/on-again friendship with Methos, or the intense fly-by encounters with the mercurial Amanda, who expected -- and got -- her moments of physical worship, then disappeared.

He couldn't help but watch as Methos' hands sketched a figure in the air, illustrating what, Mac wasn't sure, but it was obviously something vital. He smiled a little as he watched; Methos' hands were always so expressive. _Philosopher's hands,_ he thought to himself. Long-fingered and large jointed so money would always slip through them. His smile got a little bigger, and he took a swallow of coffee to cover it. Not that Methos let anything slip through his fingers. He used them more the way Mac used a sword, sliding through the air gracefully, emphasizing a point, gutting his opponent's ideas.

They could do anything, those hands, and for an instant, Mac wondered what they would feel like against his skin. Not fighting, not driving home a point, but soft and gentle, like Clare's last night.

_Oh, god._

A chill settled deep into his stomach as he pulled himself out of his reverie, glancing away from Methos and back to Clare. Clare was a good woman; it wasn't right that he look at Methos like that after spending the night with her. She deserved more, deserved to have the night mean something, though Mac wasn't sure what.

It had been a wonderful night, one he wouldn't mind repeating. But he wasn't in love with Clare, and he thought she understood that, at least he _hoped_ she understood. He frowned as he thought, looking at the two of them, knowing he was avoiding the dark consequences his own past actions were likely to bring, especially to people he cared about.

"MacLeod? Hello?" Methos noticed that Mac was staring blankly again, obviously not paying attention. "Maybe you were just too busy to get enough sleep last night," he said waspishly, "but we have a situation here? Do you think you can focus for a minute or so?"

Methos felt a twist of satisfaction at the flush that moved over Mac's face, immediately followed by a sharp pang of mingled jealousy and self-reproach. He didn't have to look at Clare to know that she was glaring at him, but he just blundered on, hoping to get out of this mess as quickly as possible.

Mac stood slowly, not looking at his friends, his broad fingers restlessly tapping the top of the table. "I've got to go. He'll be hunting."

"Hunting?" Methos asked. "Sounds like a good time to take a vacation, MacLeod. Let the police deal with Carbasa."

A sad, distant smile touched Mac's lips. "This isn't for the police, Me--Adam. This is just for me, alone." He emphasized the last word, his eyes finally rising to meet the other Immortal's. The fact that Mac had almost spoken Methos' name gave the him a clue as to the depth of the Scot's distress and distraction, even though his body was still, his face unreadable to anyone without thousands of lifetimes of experience. To anyone that didn't observe Mac as closely as Methos did.

Methos stood, tall and still, leaving Clare sitting between them, her wide eyes travelling curiously back and forth between the two men. She was smart enough, observant enough, to realize there was a great deal going unsaid between them. _Let her,_ Methos thought. Maybe she could think of some way to stop Mac from acting on his instincts.

But he was going to give it a shot first.

"MacLeod, _he tore her heart out_ ," Methos said, carefully enunciating each ugly word. "He's not sane. That's not your fault, for God's sake!"

"Oh, but it is," Mac's expression was odd, stubbornly distant, a calm, determined smile gracing his handsome features. He turned to look at Clare, his voice taking on a quality of absolute command, the compelling timbre of someone used to being obeyed. "Clare, you need to get out of town, now. I will pay for any costs. And don't leave any trace of your whereabouts. I'll let Joe Dawson know when its safe to come back, and he can send a message through the Watchers." Clare opened her mouth to protest, but Mac continued, turning towards the other Immortal. "I'm sorry, Adam," he said softly. "I'm sorry you've gotten dragged into this, but it doesn't involve you, and I would appreciate it if you would stay away until this is over."

"Until what is over, Mac?" Methos was definitely getting irritated. Mac was in full protective mode, the point at which he stopped listening to his friends and started bullying everyone around.

"Until _this_ is over!' Mac snapped back. "Neither one of you needs to be involved in this."

Methos drew himself up to his full height. "And you're opinion is the only one that's important? Typical! If you think for one instant that I'm going to let you just walk out of here--"

"Duncan! Adam! That's enough." Clare interrupted, standing and glaring at the two men who were beginning to sound like a squabbling married couple. "It's all well and good for you two to go all chivalric on me, but I am perfectly capable of handling myself. Adam," she said, her voice gentling some, "you should remember the type of training we go through. Not every Immortal is like Duncan--"

"At least we have something to be grateful for," Methos retorted.

"Adam! What is it with you? Where do you get off saying such things?" Clare stood, her eyes flashing, but Methos found her easy to ignore, his attention focused like a laser on MacLeod.

"You leave, I'll follow." His voice was low and controlled, his anger barely leashed. "Stop treating me like a child, Mac. You can't make me do anything. If you want to leave, fine. But it won't help anything."

Methos internally winced at his own words. _And how many times have you run, hmmm?_ He glanced over at Clare, wanting her support, yet the sight of her tangled his stomach into a tight knot. _Would this even be an issue if I had said anything before last night_?

Clare was glaring furiously at the both of them. "Being Immortal doesn't give you the right to make decisions for me, or for Adam, Duncan," she insisted. "I go where I believe I'm needed and do what I believe needs to be done."

"You don't know what you're dealing with!" Mac snapped. "This isn't little Benny Carbasa. This thing isn't even human! This is someone...something...from long, long ago. Someone who hates me so much," Mac's voice broke and faltered. "She hates me so much she's reached beyond the grave to hurt me. To kill those I love. Don't you see?" he whispered, "I can't let you...I can't let her know I care..." He passed a shaking hand over his face and sat heavily, his face ashen. "I know it sounds crazy. Maybe I am crazy, I don't know."

Clare whispered a bereft, "Oh, Duncan." Walking around behind him, she laid her hands on either side of Mac's neck, massaging the muscles there, a little dazed when she spoke. "It'll be fine, I'm sure."

Methos watched Mac sink into himself, despite Clare's hands on his neck. He picked up Mac's coffee cup, emptied out the cold dregs, and refilled it. He put it in front of Mac and sat down next to him, signaling Clare to stop.

"Who was she, Mac?" Methos asked gently, putting his hand on Mac's arm. "It was after Culloden, wasn't it?"

The room filled with silence, heavy and tense. For the last few minutes, Clare's world had narrowed to the words 'those I love' repeated in Duncan's soft accent somewhere in her mind; the silence of the room pulled her back from that. She first looked at Duncan, who seemed lost in a painful memory, his face a dark mask of regret and pain; she would do anything to sooth that for him, because he cared for her so much. But then her attention was captured by Adam. His eyes, shining almost golden in the morning light, were riveted on the Immortal, his expression concerned and curious. He was waiting for Mac to speak, his head slightly cocked, one elegant hand resting comfortingly on Duncan's forearm. But _waiting_ wasn't really the right term, Clare decided. There was an expectant knowing, as though there was nothing Duncan could possibly say that would offend or even surprise him.

It was a certainty she shared. An Immortal had fallen in love with her; there could be nothing more surprising than that. She'd make sure Duncan understood how much she cared as well.

When Duncan spoke at last, his voice was a harsh whisper, coming very reluctantly from somewhere deep and long hidden. Clare sat down next to him as he started to speak, wanting to comfort him, but once again Adam was there, stopping her, taking her place himself.

She frowned, watching them. Yes, it was all well-and-good that Adam was being so supportive of Duncan, but really, wouldn't it be better for her to be talking to him? After all, Duncan said he loved her not five minutes ago. That meant something, that connection between them, something Adam's friendship would never have.

Yet...maybe Duncan wouldn't be comfortable talking to her about this; she could see he felt guilty about putting her life in danger. He was such a good man. Maybe it was better for Adam to talk to him, to let friendship sooth the way for this discussion. After all, Duncan's relationship with Clare was so new -- a few hours old, at most -- maybe it would better to listen at first. Let him grow comfortable with what they meant to each other. Maybe he was just as dazed as she was with how quickly they had fallen in love.

Yes, let him have his distance now; she could ask more about it once Adam left.

"Her name was Mary," Duncan began, and slowly the tale spilled out, requiring only a few gentle murmurs from Adam whenever Duncan seemed to get lost in a memory or thought. All of Duncan's soul-deep regret was etched on his face as he talked, the weariness of his long campaign of vengeance, his heartbreak over Mary's death, and most of all, his respect for the passion and fire of Mary's love.

Duncan repeated Mary's curse like a litany, a mantra that must have eaten away at his mind and heart for centuries, ending his story with her last words: "I curse you to watch every lover die and to be able to do nothing to stop it, until the day I, too, can stab into the heart of the one you love and let the blood of that death wash away my pain." He looked up at last, and for a moment, it was though the earth had stopped spinning. The danger, the threat of something he did not understand and had no idea how to defeat, was crushing, squeezing the very breath out of him.

Clare had read his chronicles; the curse seemed to be at least partially true. No martial arts, no sword mastery, no weapons, no strength he had could protect the ones he loved. They would die, just as Tessa and Little Deer, and all the others....he was so obviously frightened for her as well.

"Mac?" Adam's voice was gentle, but Duncan seemed too caught up in his memories to return for simple friendship's sake. Confidently, Clare rose to lay a soft hand on his face, smoothing over his brow. "Duncan, here." She pressed a glass of water into his hand, glad to finally be able to reach into his world and offer him some comfort. During the whole story, it was if only he and Adam existed on the face of the planet. He'd never looked at her, never sought her touch. As if the pain would have been too great, and it was easier to deal with an old friend than a woman he might have just destroyed.

Always the chivalrous one, Duncan MacLeod.

Heart-sad, Clare looked over at Adam, sharing a long look of concern with him as Duncan sipped shakily at a glass of water. If an Immortal could be so shaken by whatever this was, what chance did their short-lived, oh-so-vulnerable mortal brethren have against it, Clare wondered.

As though reading her thoughts, Adam spoke, his voice deep and crisp and confident. "Duncan's greatest fear is not for himself, Clare. It's for you and maybe even for me."

That thought jarred her. This creature was only after Duncan's lovers. What was Adam saying by that? Duncan was certainly too much a man to even consider -- no, he must mean something else. Maybe he thought Duncan loved him like a brother, and that put him in jeopardy somehow. Well, she'd just have to take him aside and explain that he wasn't in any danger, that Duncan loved her, so she was the only one at risk.

Adam reached out as she had, quickly squeezing Duncan's arm, offering the comfort of human touch. "This isn't about the Game, so whatever this is, it can't be fought like another Immortal, can it?" His voice was gentle, but his eyes blazed with an intensity that she had never seen before. "Let me help you. It's not something you can fight alone."

"Uh, right," Clare added, part of her wondering at Adam's proprietary air, unwilling to be shouldered out. "Adam is absolutely right. You need to let us help you."

Duncan was silent and still for several long, tense seconds. "Adam," he said softly at last, "What if I've just finally lost it? What if all this is some delusion on my part? It's not as if it hasn't happened before."

Adam firmly shook his head. "No. You aren't mad, Mac. We have too many hard facts that can't be ignored: Benny Carbasa's complete change of personality to that of a brutal killer, along with a whole series of murders of a similar nature across two countries and many years. No matter what else may be involved, the murders in and of themselves are evil." He stabbed the table with his finger to make his point. "Mac, Immortals are...immortal. Doesn't that sound crazy enough as it is? We have no idea why it happens, or where Immortals come from, only that there's a Quickening, a type of power involved. Who's to say that given the will, the motivation, the complete belief that it could be done, that someone else couldn't find a way to tap into some type of power and survive a mortal's death?"

"That's crazy."

"No more crazy than some of the other things that have happened to you. Someone manipulated your dreams, Mac. You took a dark quickening that completely changed who you were. How much more crazy is that than the idea that someone could hate you enough to survive all this time? It may not be sane by the definitions of the rest of the world, but it's not all that crazy given everything else we've seen."

Clare joined the debate, seeing that Duncan had been at least partially swayed by Adam's argument. "We know that some Immortals have special powers, Duncan. The Watchers have a whole department full of parapsychologists working on to try to understand them and how they work. And while researching them, we've found a few mortals who seem to have those powers, or some remnant of them, as well."

Adam nodded at her. "Clare's right. So whatever this is, at some point, perhaps after centuries of lying dormant, something triggered its rebirth. That you are an Immortal, still alive and serving as a focus of all that hatred, probably was what allowed it to maintain its identity, its purpose. We just have to figure out how to stop it, to give it peace, to let this spirit release its need for vengeance, just as you did two hundred and fifty years ago."

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Now, you can sit there and wallow in guilt and worry; you can run away without a clue how to deal with this, wallowing in guilt and worry," a small smile was now playing around his lips. "Or you can go back over this material with me, and we can find a way to solve this puzzle." He paused for a few seconds, then added, "But if you must wallow in guilt and worry while we do it, I guess that's okay, just try not to be too obnoxious about it by telling us how to live our lives." The thin lips curled upward even more as Duncan met his eyes with an annoyed, sharp glance which finally evolved into a blush.

"Well, okay," Duncan said with a slightly embarrassed smile. "As long as I can wallow in guilt and worry."

* * *

She had taken male bodies before, but this was the first to have lasted long enough to require personal grooming. Learning to shave had been an interesting task, but it had felt good to finally take a shower. She had left the original owner of her new clothes naked and disfigured in an alleyway, but he would live. She now had enough cash to pay for a cheap hotel room for several days, if she needed it; something told her MacLeod was close. She shuddered, thinking of spending days in this city with all these people! So many, and the streets filled with fast moving vehicles that made a terrible noise and smelled far worse than manure ever had. So many things had changed...

The first body she'd taken seemed so long ago, and it had been such a surprise for both of them. The construction worker had been clearing ruins of the old inn to build a more modern structure in its place. The turn of a rock, the stirring of ancient dust and ashes, and she was just...there. She slid into him as easily as an otter slides into the river, his big, dirty hands going numb as the old owner was pushed aside, dropping the pick he'd been using, his heart laboring to adjust to her rhythm, mind blank except for the last images she remembered: searing heat, shocking pain, overwhelming loss, and soul-eating hate. She had a face and a name -- Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod -- and she'd awakened knowing that, somehow, he still lived.

Under her control, Willy MacFee had stumbled away from the work site without another word to his boss or co-workers. She'd left his body hundreds of miles away in a London alley. She'd heard they'd found him and identified him using dental records, the rest of the remains burnt beyond recognition.

It had seemed only fitting, since she'd perished in a fire herself. She thought that she would set fire to MacLeod's lover as well.

She'd traveled from host to host, absorbing what she needed to know from them, sometimes having to rest for long periods within the decaying remains before another suitable host crossed her path. But with each new victim, her knowledge grew. With each, the tangible sense of distance and direction to her prey became more distinct. Soon she would have him.

And until then, she fed, and she enjoyed it. The warm, lush excitement of tasting and gaining strength from these sad, frightened beings was an addiction in and of itself. How much better it would feel to feed off the pain and anguish of MacLeod and those he loved! So weak, the ones she took, without the will and sheer need that had kept her identity intact beyond the moment of physical death; she hoped MacLeod's woman was something more. Each time she'd taken a new host, she'd learned to extract just a little more, learned how fear and terror stimulated their will to live, and learned how to use that fuel for her own inner fire, so she would be ready when she found the demon at last.

For MacLeod was a demon, she had no doubt.  The epitome of evil, an unnatural being who had killed everything that had meaning in her life. Standing on the street above the Quay de la Tournelle, she tugged at her rumpled, ill-fitting clothing, trying to smooth it out, and looked over the waters of the Seine. A lovely view, complete with picturesque bridges over the river water sparkling in the morning sunshine.

She could almost smell him from here.

* * *

Clare watched both men, wondering at their care around one another. Men didn't usually act like that, more often given to loud noises and convivial boasting than this delicate dance these two performed. Maybe it was Adam -- he'd always been a bookworm, and maybe Duncan just wasn't sure how to interact with the scholarly type.

Or, she thought, maybe that's how he interacted with Darius, setting aside the warrior facade in the presence of another non-threatening male. She let her vision fuzz and imagined what Darius would have looked like in Adam's role, the warrior-turned-priest and Duncan's father-confessor. Yes, she nodded to herself, that's just how it would be. Darius showing Duncan something of interest, and Duncan looking at him with that mixture of exasperation, amusement, affection and concern...

Shocked, she sat upright, her daydream quickly dispelling, the two men so attuned to each other that they did not notice her startled jump. That wasn't just affection what she'd seen cross both men's features, that was something a little bit more. And those brotherly touches, especially Adam's, were more flirtatious, more wanting...

That's what he meant when he said that he might be in danger too. He wanted to be Duncan MacLeod's lover.

The shock of the direction her thoughts were taking forced her out of her chair, to do something, anything to cover her conflicting, confusing feelings. As she busied herself straightening up, putting dishes away into the dishwasher, her mind was in a complete turmoil. No wonder Adam had been so nasty when he realized Duncan had been in her bed. Somehow, the notion of anyone of any gender being attracted to Duncan MacLeod seemed perfectly understandable, and the concept certainly explained many years of subtle frustration with Adam. Clare felt a flash of smugness that she had gotten something that the great and oh-so-superior Adam Pierson had wanted. Then her face flushed as she remembered her abortive attempts to find out if there was any possibility of a romantic relationship with Adam. He must have thought her the complete fool, laughing at her the whole time.

Anger and embarrassment replaced smugness, and Clare slammed the door closed on the dishwasher with a loud thump, attracting the attention of both men.

"Something wrong, Clare?" Duncan asked, his face suddenly full of concern as his attention was jerked away from his conversation with Adam. He got up and came into the kitchen after her, close enough to reach out a hand and close it gently around her forearm. She smiled as she looked at his hand; she really liked that trait in him, his evident need for physical connection, and she reveled in his touch.

She looked back at Adam at the table, knowing her smugness showed. She had Duncan MacLeod, and that was something Adam Pierson could never have.

* * *

Duncan felt this odd sense of disengagement as he and Adam tried to sort out the various frayed threads of memory and myth and fear and guilt that tangled whatever knot had tied Benny Carbasa and Duncan MacLeod to each other and to events that had taken place so long ago. So much fear and guilt and regret dammed up over the years, with a conscience that never let him completely forget, or forgive himself. Methos' gentle touch on his arm kept him anchored in the here and now, or he might have just felt himself drift away, some disembodied, sad spirit untethered to any place or point in time.

Simultaneously, those same nerve endings that welcomed the touch were sending signals to glands that made his body tingle in familiar, but disturbing places, inappropriate places, so that he was almost grateful for the distraction of the thumping crash of the dishwasher door being slammed shut behind him...except that Methos immediately let go of his arm. Mac found himself reaching out, his hand holding Clare's arm as a substitute.

What else had he used her as a substitute for?

He didn't want to think about that. Instead, his arms curled around her, drawing her in close, the scent of her body teasing him. He had ignored Clare, had insulted her, and she was the one in most danger, and his neglect was made even more apparent by the look in her eyes when they met his. "I'm sorry," he said automatically holding her close. "You're the one at risk here, and I've totally ignored your needs.

"Not all of them" She whispered, teasing him. "You satisfied a lot last night."

Duncan froze at the memory. "I've got to get you away from here." He looked over at Methos. "Adam --"

"Stop it!" Clare twisted around in his arms, grabbing a hold of his chin and pulling his face down to hers. "I'm not your fragile flower to protect! I am not going anywhere. I won't abandon you. You don't have to be afraid for me." Her anger turned dry, and she dropped her hand, looking away from him, staring at Methos. "All these trips down memory lane are interesting, but we need some plan of action to catch Carbasa before he does any more damage."

His hand ached where Clare gripped it, but Duncan had to admit she was right. He knew it, and yet he knew he couldn't put her in any more danger. He glanced over at Methos and received an answering nod; Methos saw the need to get Clare out of here too. The creature would be searching for someone, anyone to take her revenge on, and thanks to his own thoughtlessness, Clare was right in the thing's path.

They had to figure out some way to protect her. He tried to get Methos to talk about it when Clare was out of the room for a moment, but Methos merely patted his arm and replied enigmatically, "I'll take care of it."

Then Methos leaned forward and kissed him.


	10. Chapter 10

Methos' lips felt oddly soft and caressing, gentle, hesitant. Duncan froze, his heart pounding noisily within him. What the...? Methos' mouth opened slightly, and Duncan felt the tip of a tongue brush delicately against his lips. Heat rushed through him, and Duncan leaned into it, letting it sooth the dizzy rush of questions in his mind, letting it show him a myriad of fascinating possibilities he had not yet considered. The kiss lasted only an instant, then he pulled back sharply, turning toward the sound that had shattered the moment.

Clare was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. There was a broken cup on the floor at her feet, and she was staring at the two of them, her eyes as round as saucers, her voice hard as stone. "Adam, I think you'd better go."

Startled, Duncan turned back to Methos, knowing his confusion was written on his face, feeling like he'd lost himself in an ocean of quicksand. "Adam...?" He asked softly, half in anticipation, half in dread, hoping for some sort of explanation.

It didn't look like he'd be getting one.

Methos looked back at him, trying to say _something_ with his eyes, something that Mac just couldn't understand. Methos didn't even acknowledge Clare's presence, which seemed to be growing colder and more still by the moment, the longer they stared at each other. Methos finally shook himself and sighed, looking over at her. "Yeah, you're probably right." He squeezed Duncan's arm, determination in his expression. "Call you later." He grabbed his long coat from the stand by the door and was gone.

Duncan wanted to yell for him to wait, to stop. What was going on? Why couldn't Methos just come right out and _say_ what he was thinking? Why had Methos kissed him?

Not that he objected, mind you, it just...it seemed out of thin air.

"Duncan?" Clare's soft voice and hand on his arm pulled him out of his confused daze.

He laid his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. "I'm here," he reassured her. "No memories this time."

"Duncan...about Adam." She dropped her hand and looked away. "I don't think you should be angry. He's just...well..." Clare shrugged. "I think I'd already realized he was interested in being more than just your friend. Finding out about us...well, he's obviously not taking it well."

Duncan wanted to laugh. He'd managed to catch that part. Why now, though? What had changed? They'd been so angry with each other after...after Jacob had been killed. What was going on inside Methos' head?

"Uh," Duncan's fingers brushed his forehead. What could he say to that? He needed to think about something else, get them moved on to a different subject before he found himself chasing after Methos and demanding an explanation, leaving Clare alone and unguarded, an easy target for the creature coming after him. "Clare," he said firmly, taking her shoulders. "I know you feel you can protect yourself, but remember, Benny is not only an Immortal, he's insane. I need to think through how to deal with this, but in the meantime, let's at least get you someplace where you aren't all alone."

"But I'm not alone," Clare smiled. "You're with me." She moved in, putting her hands on his chest. "And I feel perfectly safe." She raised up on her toes and kissed him, then reached for more, putting her arms proprietarily around his neck.

Duncan pulled back, pulling her arms down and giving her a quick peck on her forehead as his stomach twisted into a knot. There was no way to stop himself from comparing the two kisses and no way he wanted to think about them at all. Better to think of Benny and the creature after them than get caught up in...this. Whatever this was. "Clare--"

"Alright, alright!" She raised her hands and stepped away with a smile. "You win. I need to report all this to Headquarters, anyway." She picked up the cup shards off the floor and took them into the kitchen, continuing to talk at him from the other room.

Duncan tried to focus on what she was saying, but his mind kept drifting as he sank back against the couch. As soon as he found a safe place for Clare, he was going to track Methos down and have a talk with him about that kiss and what it meant.

Clare padded back out of the kitchen, her arms filled with the paperwork that had been sitting on the table, distracting him from his thoughts. "Boy, are they going to go berserk when they hear there's another Immortal crazy on the loose." She stuffed the papers into a briefcase while Duncan watched, finding it easier to listen to her than it was to try and think. "I can't really tell the Watchers about us, though," she added thoughtfully, sliding next to him. "They're still very touchy about Watchers and Immortals." She shrugged and leaned over to whisper to him. "I'll think of something, don't worry. They won't be able to keep us apart."

That got Duncan's attention. Clare seemed to think that last night meant something different, something more than he thought it meant. He groaned to himself. He was his own worst enemy at times. "Clare, about what happened..."

Clare patted his hand and stood up. "There's no need to be embarrassed about Adam," she said, smiling mischievously. "I like to think of myself as a very open-minded person. While, I must confess I was a little surprised to learn that he, uh, liked guys, I can hardly fault his taste in men, now can I?" She cradled the briefcase in her arms and cocked her head to the side. "You want to drop me off? I should be safe there, and I'll call you when I'm done."

Knowing he was in over his head, Duncan let Clare direct him to the car, where she chattered away while he drove.

* * *

_I am my own worst enemy._

Methos' knew these conversations with himself weren't terribly productive, but he couldn't stop them. When Mac had been talking to him while Clare was in the kitchen, it was if he'd had a vision of how everything could be solved. The doctor had died, probably because she'd been associated with Mac -- she had flirted with him and touched him, desired him. Mac insisted that Clare was in danger because they'd spent the night together, so Methos' brilliant flash of insight told him that if he kissed MacLeod, then the thing would have a reason to come after him. Clare would be safe and...and Mac would be with him, instead.

Of course, that also meant that he was volunteering to act as bait, a fact his 'flash of inspiration' neglected to take into account.

Methos grimaced. Hello brain, libido calling. Five thousand years and he still thought with his dick. What had he been thinking?

_I wasn't thinking, I was improvising._

Yeah, right, well if he hadn't been so good at improvising, he might well be in that apartment right now, thank you very much. He pounded the steering wheel of the car. If he'd laid low a bit, waited, let his mind work on the problem a little more, he would still be up there right now, might still have a chance to -- to what?

This time his mind refused to answer. He didn't really know what he'd thought would happen. But something should have, he knew that. Something other than letting himself get kicked out of the apartment and leaving Duncan with...her.

Who did she think she was, anyway? An old friend of Mac's?

_No, an old friend of yours._

He cursed to himself. Great. Good. Fine. He'd figure a way out of this, one that didn't require him to act as bait or leave Clare in Duncan's solicitous protection. Something that would get her out of the way...

You know, if he just killed Clare, made it look like the creature had done it...

He snorted at the thought. Oh, thank you very much. If Mac found out, he'd be toast. Mac really didn't like it when someone killed his friends. Been there, done that, in fact. Remember Jacob? Hadn't that been what started this whole bloody business? He'd been looking for some nice, easy way to put himself back in Mac's life.

He parked the car in the space he rented and walked up to his flat to think. There had to be a way out of this mess, and Methos _knew_ he could find it.

* * *

Duncan dropped Clare off at Watcher Headquarters, waiting until she had passed through their tight security before he pulled away. He headed for the barge, his brain unable to settle on a plan, or even a concept for a plan. All he could think about was the feel of Methos' mouth on his, the way it had left a smoldering warmth banked deep in his body. Was it a promise of a future affair, or was it just the stepping stone of some plan? Had he been kissed for effect, or kissed for...some other reason? Was it Methos' idea of a joke? Duncan gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, then forced himself to relax. Couldn't be, he thought. It hadn't seemed like a joke at the time, but it made no sense.

Whether it made sense, or not, it had definitely happened, and in some strange way, it had changed everything. He should be thinking about the creature that had possessed Benny, and instead all he could think about was the pure, undiluted erotic heat at the notion of Methos naked, writhing underneath....he ruthlessly shut down those thoughts before he ended up in a car wreck.

Methos' place. He'd check there first, then the bookshop, the library, the church, and the barge. He had to be somewhere, and Duncan was going to find him. And then, he promised himself, Methos was going to explain a few things.

* * *

The hiding place was a small, dark hole at the bottom of the stairs leading to the barge's pilothouse. The smell of old oil, of engines, of the river, permeated the space, but its close confines were a comforting reminder of the centuries spent tucked closely in the earth. She was tired and hungry, body and soul. This body required food, but the thought of eating made her cringe. The smell of burnt flesh reminded her...her thoughts skittered away from those memories. And her soul was drifting, losing strength, losing purpose.

At first, being around MacLeod's things, his clothes, his possessions, had excited her. She could smell him, feel him. There was so much life here. She sensed so much power, such strong emotion. There were framed images of him in modern dress with a beautiful blond woman and a red-haired young man. He looked just the same as he had so long ago, except for his eyes. That was something she would never forget, those dark eyes that had burned with hatred and anger when he had killed her Jonathan. They had been the eyes of a demon.

But in these images the man was smiling, his eyes warm and loving. And there were pieces of art that drew her focus, full of life and color. There were sculptures that felt almost alive under her hands. But these were not the possessions of a demon, and she ended up confused and uncertain. Confusion drained her strength, and she retreated defensively to her small hideaway to wait.

* * *

Clare's interview with the Regional Director had been nothing short of infuriating. She slammed her files down on her desk, kicked her chair until it rolled noisily into the bookshelves behind her desk, and sat with a whump and a curse. "Blind, stupid, misogynistic, arrogant assholes!" she murmured under her breath. She couldn't even say what she thought aloud since Director Marcel "it's-for-your-own-safety" Girard had placed a bodyguard -- can you believe it, she asked herself -- just outside her door.

All because she hadn't been able to tell the story in her own words, put her own spin on it, because Dr. Adam Pierson -- Supreme Authority on Everything -- had called in ahead of her arrival. Thankfully, he hadn't mentioned that she and Duncan were now lovers, but she was certain that was only out of jealousy, not out of any altruistic notion of keeping her out of trouble.

Now, between the Director's paternalistic, utterly outmoded, and completely unnecessary notion of her frail femininity and Pierson's malicious meddling, she was under virtual house arrest. How was she going to be able to see Duncan again? How were they supposed to track Benny down and stop him? Wait until he/she/it killed again? Or maybe it would go directly after Duncan, instead, since it didn't have another target. Her skin went cold at that thought. Did even an Immortal as powerful as Duncan MacLeod have any defense against whatever this thing was? And Duncan felt so responsible, for what had happened. Would he be able to put his heart into defending himself without the motivation of protecting someone he loved?

She scooted forward to her desk and leaned on her chin on her hand, thumbing absently through the files. She picked up a pen and started doodling on a pad. As happened so often when she allowed her mind to set its own path, she found herself making a big number "1" then tracing over it several times. "Escape," she wrote beside the primary number. Then "2." She retraced the number over and over until it was imprinted deeply into the paper. "Get rid of Pierson!!" she finally wrote onto her abbreviated To Do list.

* * *

Methos set the phone back on the hook, staring at it like it might jump up and bite him. It was a good compromise, he knew. Getting the Watchers to look after Clare would satisfy Mac and keep her well out of danger. Yet that inner voice of his just kept laughing at him, asking him if that was the real reason for what he'd done, asking if it might have had something to do with that kiss.

Just for a moment, he let himself revel in that instant, let himself remember what it had felt like to have Mac's lips brushing against his own. No condemnation, no fear -- surprise, yes, startlement -- but nothing to indicate that Mac...might not enjoy something more than just a kiss.

Wishful thinking again, old man, he snorted to himself, pushing the thought aside and turning his hand to making a list of what they would need to do to track Benny down. He also made a few notes about the creature, so he could see if he could find any documented, similar incidents.

Oh, yes, people go around documenting ghost stories all the time. But who really believes them?

He'd never studied psychic phenomena if he could help it. Maybe after having once been called a god his faith in any power beyond that of his own common sense had been destroyed. And he'd never seen anything of a true supernatural nature in his life -- oh, maybe he'd thought so at the time, but still, eventually someone found a way to explain it away.

Someday someone would find a way to explain Immortals, too. He planned to be there when they did. Methos smiled, that vision of the future a very secret fantasy of his.

His smile drifted away as he thought some more. In his lifetime, he'd seen the popularly accepted 'laws of the universe' change, and change, and change again. This creature, whatever it was, was operating under some rule system, as well. There had to be some other way to release her, other than the fulfillment of that curse.

Unless Mac was willing to...help bait the trap.

The smile returned, and Methos threw his list onto the table. It was a devious plan that opened up all sorts of possibilities.  He liked it.  He stood and stretched, glancing at the clock. He'd been sitting here for quite a while, thinking about what to do. He really needed a beer.

The thrum of an Immortal crept up his spine just as he pulled the last cold Pilsner from the fridge. He deftly opened it while grabbing his sword, took a swig, and headed for the door. He knew who it probably was, counted on it, but there was still the possibility that it might be Benny.

* * *

The barge rocked gently with the passing river traffic. The spirit housed in the body of Benny Carbassa had allowed that flesh to rest, but her strength waned even as the shadows grew and merged into a colorless grayness in the small stairwell. But the dark was a close companion, an ally, and it was time. Although reluctant to leave the demon's lair, the Revenant slipped up the stairs and out, searching for a likely place, a likely candidate, to feed her soul. To make her strong so she could do that which she had been destined to do.

* * *

Duncan stood outside Methos' door, his hand poised to knock, and stopped. He could feel the man inside. Feel him. Like warm wind through an open window. The memory of that kiss made his face flood with heat, and suddenly he had no idea what to say, what to do.

The door opened.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in." Methos hesitantly nodded toward the interior of the room. "Come on in, Duncan."

Not Mac. Not MacLeod. Duncan. Said in a dark, gentle tone. Duncan had never realized before what a seductive voice Methos had.

Methos carefully stepped aside. "I imagine I know why you're here."

"Wouldn't be that hard to guess, would it?" Duncan stuck his hands deep into his coat pockets and moved inside, stepping past Methos without getting too close, not quite sure what would happen if he did.

The door clicked closed behind them, and Duncan turned around to look.

Methos rubbed his free hand through his hair as he glanced at the floor, then back at Duncan. He stuffed his sword away into the umbrella stand. "So, if you're going to kill me, let's get it over with. I have a lot of work to do."

Duncan ignored him, pacing around Methos' apartment. He'd never been to this one, and the place was full of oddly angled furniture and artifacts of questionable utility and unknown origin. Fascinating and eclectic, like its owner, he thought. The bed, visible on the other side of the kitchen area, was a simple mattress and box spring on a frame, covered in an Indian print duvet. Not exactly a space for entertaining, but then Methos wasn't in the habit of having a lot of friends over. Actually, the man wasn't in the habit of having a lot of friends, period.

The silence was getting awkward. Duncan cleared his throat. "Methos..." He looked up and caught Methos' gaze, his throat seizing up so he couldn't speak.

"I take it you're not going to kill me."

Duncan shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Good." Methos put his hand to his chest and gave a melodramatic sigh of relief. "I was worried about that. Take off your coat and stay awhile," Methos offered, his eyes bright, yet wary.

Taking off his coat seemed like a bad idea, for some reason. "Methos," Duncan started again, then stopped, blanking on what to say.

"Can I offer you a beer?" Methos walked past him into the kitchen and came out with an open bottle, condensation running down its sides. "There are others, but most of them are warm."

Duncan watched as Methos drank from the bottle, his neck arched, tongue wisping out to wipe the condensation from his lips. "That used to be normal," Duncan said distractedly, more to himself than the other man, focusing on Methos' lips and mouth, one corner of it sort of curled up in a half-grin.

"A lot of things used to be normal." Methos leaned against the couch, looking at Duncan. "Please, take off your coat. You look positively bumfoozled," he observed sagely. He was half-on, half off the couch, one hand stuck in the back pockets of blue jeans slung low on his hips, head cocked slightly to the left. The soft, well-worn Henley was missing a button, Duncan noticed, wondering at the irrelevancies that were inexplicably occupying his attention.

Really, all things considered, Methos looked good enough to eat.

"I, uh, I dropped Clare off at Watcher Headquarters." The statement of fact seemed like a safe enough opening. "She'll be safe there for the moment, and she'll call me when she can get away."

Methos' smile turned almost malicious. "Well, that might take a little longer than expected." He grabbed a glass that was sitting out and poured half of his beer into it before offering it to Duncan. "Take it. We can share the cold ones. And for god's sake, please take off your coat. You're making me nervous."

Duncan took the glass and stared at it a moment, then drained it dry. He set the glass back on the table and took off his coat, methodically hanging it up on the coat rack as Methos continued to talk.

"I called the Regional Director and let him know Benny was the one who killed the doctor and escaped the mental institution, and that his next logical target was Clare." He slid onto the couch, his voice hesitant, yet self-satisfied, as if disclosing a small sin that he enjoyed. "I suspect she's under, uh, close observation for the time being."

"Under house arrest, you mean." Duncan tried to sound at least a little upset. "Methos, you know I wanted Clare protected, but you said yourself that we needed to work together to figure out how to deal with this," he protested, part of his mind working through what Methos had said while another part of him observed that Methos looked awfully good when he sprawled. He didn't try to find a better argument. In all honesty, he was relieved not to have to worry about Clare's safety. This way, he didn't have to think about his own damnable stupidity in letting himself get tangled with her, and dealing with both her and Methos at the same time was giving him a headache.

Add to that an ancient ghost bent on destroying everyone he loved...all-in-all, Duncan considered this a 'not-good' day.

Methos was looking at him, half-shy, half-amused, and incredibly exasperating. "I'm sorry, but we really didn't seem to have the time."

"Didn't have the time? For what? To explain why you felt it necessary to kiss me?"

"Yes."

"So you just did it."

Methos nodded sagely. "Yes."

Duncan wanted to hit him. "What the hell is going on here?" he demanded, rubbing absently at his temples and pacing the floor. "I feel like I'm in a play, and everyone knows their lines but me!"

"Ah, Duncan," Methos sighed, sinking further into the couch, taking another swallow of his beer. "Sit down. You're going to hate me for telling you this."

"Telling me what!? So far, all you've done is told me to take off my coat and have a beer."

"Always sound advice in my book."

"Methos..." Duncan stalked over to the couch. "If you don't tell me--"

"Let's just say I was...inspired," Methos observed, his head slightly tilted so he could look up at where Mac loomed over him. "Look, I'm thought--" he sighed, leaned his head back against the couch, and closed his eyes. "It was stupid. Forget it."

"Easier said than done." Duncan took a couple of deep breaths and steadied himself, then eased himself down onto the couch next to Methos.

"You're going to kill me now, aren't you?" Methos said, still not opening his eyes. "I think there's a knife in the kitchen; I'd prefer that to the swords. Less damage to the furniture."

"Methos--"

"What, MacLeod? Can't you say anything but my name?" Methos eyes were open and flashing with fury. "Okay, I kissed you. All right? I had some crazy idea that if the creature was after anyone who had, uh, some kind of sexual feeling or interaction, then maybe it would follow me, and Clare would be safe -- at least that was the idea at the time. I think. Ten minutes later, I knew it for the bullshit it was." He looked straight at Duncan, took a deep breath, and then spoke. "It was just an excuse. I kissed you because it felt good. Those are the real facts."

Well, at least they'd gotten that part cleared up. Duncan sat in silence for a long minute, staring into his lap at his big hands, fingers tightly interlaced. "Well!" he said at last on a large gust of breath.

"Deep subject," Methos finally replied after careful consideration.

They were stunning conversationalists.

"It's not a bad plan," Mac observed, still looking at his hands, his dark brows furrowed in contemplation. "Even if it was just an excuse."

"Pardon?" Methos asked in apparent confusion. Duncan guessed that his reaction wasn't quite what was expected.

"It's not a bad plan." Duncan shifted back against the couch. "To get the ghost...Benny...whatever this thing is...to come after you instead of Clare." He was babbling-- at least he thought he was. If he was talking, he didn't need to think, and if he thought, he'd be back to 'but it was just an excuse.'

Score one for Methos. At least he knew what he wanted. Duncan wasn't sure he knew anything at all. Focus on Clare, he told himself. Stick with the plan. Don't think about the other. "I know sacrificial heroics is not your usual style, but even if the thing gets a hold of you, you'll survive."

"Mac...You ever had your heart ripped out?"

"Not lately."

"Trust me, it's not pleasant. But yes, I'd live."

Why the hell should he focus on the plan? Clare...was a lovely woman. Warm and tender and sweet, but Methos...was exasperating, infuriating, and probably his best friend at the moment, even if he spend every other breath denying it. "If you do it, it'll give me a real opportunity to stop her...him...it without anyone else getting killed."

"Us. A chance for us to stop her." Methos closed his eyes and leaned back. "It's a rotten plan."

But Methos wasn't denying it, was he? Methos wanted him...and really, it wouldn't be so bad. "Yeah, well..." Mac cleared his throat. "There's one thing that I forgot to mention."

"What?"

He smiled slightly. No, not bad at all. "I liked it," he murmured in Methos' ear, his voice deep and low, watching as Methos shivered in response.  "Kissing has always been among my favorite pastimes."

"Yes, but you still don't want me, Mac."

"Really?  Who told you that?" He turned Methos' face to his and kissed him.

Their lips pressed together, harsh at first, but with a soft sigh, Methos relaxed against him and opened up his mouth, letting Duncan inside. Oh, this was good. Not rushed like the last time, no pressure here, Clare taken care of, no one else about. Just the two of them, kissing long and slow, devouring each other--

Gasping for breath.

"Is that," Methos asked softly, "just a part of the plan?

"As a matter of fact," Duncan said, leaning over Methos, his arm across the back of the couch, his lips only inches away from Methos', "the kiss was inspired. But I think..." he leaned even closer. "I think we'll have to make absolutely sure we've left all the right clues for it...her...the creature...whatever...to follow."

"Because of the plan?" Methos had his hand on Duncan's chest, stopping him from moving closer.

Duncan captured the hand and threaded his fingers through Methos', pulling it aside. "Because...I want to." He smiled at Methos' answering grin.

"Just as long as we're both on the same page." Methos pulled Duncan in tight to his chest.  
 

* * *

Clare contemplated the windowless monk's cell she had been assigned in the basement of Watcher headquarters. One twin bed, one nightstand, one bedside lamp, one chest of drawers. Oh, and don't forget one dusty, faded print of some pastoral French countryside, she reminded herself in taking her inventory. Homey touch. Just the thing to make me feel all warm and comfy.

Right now, she really empathized with Jacob Galati. Even though she had no idea how to handle a gun, the thought having one and of shooting her way out of this place held a certain appeal.

"It's just until we track down this Benny Carbassa," Director Girard had decreed, looking at her down his long, Gaelic beak with a condescending smile. "There are a few Watchers on the police force, and they'll keep us posted on the search. It will probably only be a few days."

Yes, Director Girard. No, Director Girard. Thank you, Director Girard. Go fuck yourself, Director Girard. Clare didn't say any of it, just thought it all as she was 'informed' of the change in her living arrangements.

The Director's brow furrowed, and he wandered over to a window, gazing out distractedly. "Carbassa was never considered a serious threat. Small time hoodlum, but more of danger to himself than anyone else." He shook his head. "Immortals. You've got to wonder if they're really...human at all."

Clare had wanted to tell him how wrong he was, but before she got the chance, she had been escorted into the bowels of the building with apologies about it rarely being used by, uh, females and therefore the, uh, facilities were more primitive than...well, hopefully it would only be for a short time.

A short time. Right. The Watchers were simply not to be trusted.

She took stock of her situation. No phone. No television. No books. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Great. This was their 'safe' house? Clare sighed. When the Director had first mentioned it, she had hoped for had some romantic European chateau like those depicted in all those spy movies. Something in stone overlooking a cliff, with water crashing against the rocks hundreds of feet below. Where Duncan could rescue her from the cruel clutches of... _get a grip, Winge_ , she pulled herself out her ridiculous fantasy.

What was important was that Duncan was in serious trouble, that she needed to be with him, to help him...and prevent any more embarrassing encounters with that bastard, Pierson.

She had to laugh at her own folly. It was absurd. Ridiculous. Whatever odd look Duncan had had on his face, however bright Adam's eyes had been when the two men had stared at each other during that awkward moment when she had walked in on them, Duncan loved her. He had said so, and every Watcher knew that when Duncan MacLeod loved, there was no force on earth that could keep him from the object of his adoration.

Nothing would keep them apart. Not Pierson, and especially not that Cro-Magnon man masquerading as a guard that was lurking outside her doorway.

She sighed. Pity. Guess she wasn't going to need that assault rifle after all.

It wasn't that hard, really.  Not when your IQ-challenged guardians thought you wanted their so-called protection. A bathrobe over her clothes, a loud announcement about a long soak in the tub in the bathroom down the hall, and the stage was set. It seemed to take forever for the guard to decide he needed to take a quick leak, and watching through the crack in the door while crouched on the cold tile floor was a real pain. But at last he stepped away long enough for Clare to slip up the stairs, discard her robe, and just walk out the front door with a breezy wave at the guard on duty.

She walked quickly around the corner and joined the crowd down the stairs to the subway, feeling very pleased with herself. So there, Adam Pierson, she thought smugly. You aren't the only one who can be resourceful. No doubt Adam was using the opportunity to get Duncan alone, thinking she was safely tucked away. She could hardly wait to see the look on his face when she showed up at Duncan's barge.


	11. Chapter 11

It was nice to be on the same page, for once -- nearly on the same damn letter. Duncan's body was a welcome weight, pressing him down into the couch. The couch itself didn't seem to be as scratchy as he remembered, though it was a little hard. Methos had bought it for its looks, not because it was particularly comfortable. He'd never expected to end up pressed into its creases, making out with his best friend.

He thought he heard Duncan's leg knock the table and the beer bottle fall over, but there was no resounding crash as it shattered. Methos ignored the noise as unimportant, but it caused Duncan to shift, and the distraction gave him a moment to think.

Disconcerted, Methos wondered when things had changed. He would have bet money that Mac had never been overtly attracted to him, and yet...he gasped as Mac nibbled at the juncture of neck and collarbone...either MacLeod had been amazingly good at concealing his feelings, or Methos had been alarmingly blind. Either way, he apparently would have lost his bet.

He smiled as he threaded his hands through Duncan's hair. Nice to know that after five thousand years, he could still be surprised.

Duncan's hands slid under Methos' sweater, fingers ghosting along his ribs, sending a shock of desire arching though him. Methos groaned, pressing up into the touch. Whether or not Mac had wanted him before, those hands made it clear his intentions weren't innocent. Roguish, maybe. Seductive, certainly. But not innocent.

"Methos...." His name rumbled out of Duncan's lips, and Methos looked up, running one hand under Duncan's shirt and cupping the other around the back of his neck.

"Yes, Mac?" If he leaned in just a bit more, Duncan's lips would be pressed against his again.

The thought was too good to pass up.

He nibbled a little, not letting Duncan talk about whatever it was he wanted to say, swallowing Duncan's breath and feeding back his own. His tongue explored Duncan's mouth freely, enjoying the taste of the Highlander's lips and the softness there.

He moved down a little, kissing and nipping at Duncan's neck. The skin was rougher here, and he could feel the scratchiness of stubble. Salty, too, in contrast with the sweetness of Duncan's mouth. He moved back to kiss Duncan's lips again--

And was caught by a gleam in Duncan's eyes. Sensual, mischievous, and very determined. Methos closed his eyes and dropped his head. He just wasn't in the mood to talk.

* * *

The springs on the couch were shot, Duncan decided. They needed to move someplace a little softer. "Methos?"

"What?" Methos snapped, jerking his head up and looking at Duncan, his eyes dilated with sexual heat. "If you stop now, I may have to kill you. Remember, I know where the knives are."

"No." Duncan shook his head. It was odd how Methos' insecurities usually came out as jokes. It was taking a while, but he was learning to read the fear behind the humor, and right now, Methos was afraid that he was going to run off. "No, I'm not leaving. I was just thinking that the bed looks a little more comfortable."

"Oh." Methos gave a dramatic sigh. "Good. I was afraid you wanted to talk."

Duncan looked incredulously at him. "Methos," he ground out, placing one of Methos' hands over the hard bulge of his cock, "now is not the time for talking...."

Methos practically purred as he rubbed the cloth-covered erection. "No, I suppose not."

"Bed?" Duncan growled nipping at Methos' ear, his hands working at the fastening of Methos' pants.

With a gasp as the uncomfortable tightness cutting into his groin suddenly eased, Methos agreed.

* * *

Clare paid the cab and turned to look out over the water. From here she had a wonderful view of the barge -- Duncan's barge, she reminded herself. The thought made her shiver. She'd never been here before, never even been on a boat, for that matter, but she knew that Duncan would want her here. On the way over in the cab she'd fantasized about what she would say, how she would sarcastically report what Adam had done, getting the Watchers to incarcerate her, supposedly for her own protection.

It wasn't quite reality, but the images were comforting. Duncan would not be pleased, she was sure. He would toss Adam out on his ear, and she and Duncan would...get a little more comfortable. She smiled as she examined the long, gleaming dark vessel, her heart racing at the thought. Even the idea of simply seeing Duncan's things firsthand gave her a fluttery feeling in her stomach, spreading upward until she felt her face grow warm. She paused at the top of the stairs leading down to the quay, pressing her hand to her chest as dizzy panic overwhelmed her at the sight of the place Duncan called home while he lived in Paris.

Living on a converted barge was considered the ultimate in chic, even if, as she had heard, Duncan's quarters were relatively spartan. This was a style of living reserved for someone whose lifestyle and experiences were utterly alien to the daughter of a pharmacist from Ottowa.

Sometimes you've got to wonder if they are really human, Girard had mused. Clare stopped midway down the stairs, her hand holding onto the cold stones of the wall to steady herself.

I'm insane, she suddenly thought, a cold panic clutching at her gut. I am a Watcher. He is an Immortal. Have I fallen in love, or have I just fallen for the romantic notion that someone like Duncan MacLeod could actually care for me?

The cold reality of the situation sent chills chasing down her arms, and she hugged herself, looking out at the black water, forcing herself to slow down and think. She slowly took the last few steps to the bottom of the stairs, her mind going back over the last few tumultuous days, trying to sort out feeling from fact, illusion  or delusion  from reality. Duncan was gorgeous. Duncan was a great lover. Duncan was a figure straight out of heroic myth. But was he someone she was prepared to live with? Day after day? Year after year? Growing old as he stayed young? Standing by while he went off to do combat to the deathagain and again and again? Suddenly the devotion, patience, and courage of Tessa Noel seemed breathtakingand heartbreaking.

She tucked her hands tight in her pockets against the cool spring night air. Movement in the deep shadows under the nearby bridge caught her eye. Two lovers, no doubt, one of them leaning over the other, groping in the dark. Paris was a city for lovers, after all. Maybe she had just fallen in love with the idea of falling in love, Clare speculated sadly.

* * *

This odd world in which Mary had found herself was peopled by all kinds of almost invisible prey, she realized with feral satisfaction, then froze as she stopped to consider what had just sprung from some hidden corner in her mind. Mary. Yes, that was her name, she realized with a small jolt of surprise. She had not thought of herself as having a name since she had awakened. In all the time since then, there had been only one name that had any meaning to her existence, and that had been the demon, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.

But then she was distracted by the final, trembling death throes of the body under her hands, her hands all warm and sticky with fresh blood. She had found her latest meal easily enough, huddled against the cold in an alley, cradling a bottle of spirits. And enticing it back here under the bridge so she could feed while she kept an eye on MacLeod's boat had been absurdly simple. She sat back on her haunches, licking her fingers, savoring the salty, slightly metallic taste. She could always think more clearly when she had fed, and the remembrance of her own name had triggered disquieting visions, faces rising up out of the past like vivid dreams. There had been a girl with long braids. Ah, yes. Martha. She smiled, remembering. And Papa, with his sad eyes, and Mama, who had died when she was only nine.

And Jonathan, of the beautiful brown eyes. Jonathan, who'd loved her. Jonathan, who had died with a dagger in his heart.

Her head jerked around, and she sniffed the air. There! There, at the bottom of the stairs. Ah, the scent was strong with this one. Oh, yes! She had been with Him! Her heart surged, and she closed the distance between them before the woman made it halfway across the stone pathway to MacLeod's black lair.

* * *

Clare heard the soft rustle of footsteps on the quay, like dry leaves brushing across stone. She didn't pay much attention to it, though, her mind focused on Duncan and the barge.

It was only when she had landed at the bottom of the steps that the smell came to her, the scent of decay and rot. The noise was louder here and no longer like dry leaves; it sounded like the skittering of rats she remembered from her undergraduate days, when the animals were made to run a maze.

"Hello?" she called softly into the shadows, bundling herself up against the sudden chill. No one answered, and the barge wasn't that far away. If anything happened, she could scream; Duncan would come to her rescue. She made sure she had a firm grip on her keys. She'd been told once that you could use them to gouge an attempted rapist , and though she didn't plan on testing that idea, they did give her some measure of comfort.

And really, the barge wasn't that far away.

* * *

The revenant slid in behind the woman before she could set foot on the gangplank. A hand over her mouth, a strong grip around her waist, and the demon's lover belonged to Mary at last.

Her captive. Her weapon. Her vengeance.

But first, she had to find a way to summon MacLeod.

* * *

Methos sprawled limply over him on the duvet, his breathing slowly returning to normal, skin slick with sweat, a warm, sated dead weight. But Duncan couldn't seem to settle as easily. His body satisfied, his mind slowly, inexorably peregrinated through the initial rush of heady exhilaration and euphoria, slipped down the slope past astonishment at the change in events, and rolled inevitably into thoughtful introspection.

At first it was a throat-tightening, almost frightening realization that this was something totally new in his life, this sense of utter belonging. With Tessa he had always been aware of the differences between them, that there was some part of his life she could never share, that he never wanted her to share. And that inevitably, he would lose her.

Had he, after so long...so very, very long...perhaps found someone who could share his life -- all of his life? Could it possibly be? Was it even conceivable that there was someone he could love, who could know and accept all his dark corners, that he wasn't destined to lose so quickly that he barely had time to know them? But with that thought came another.

Oh, God, what the hell was he going to do about Clare? He'd never made her any promises, but she was going to be hurt. He hadn't intended to fall into bed with Methos, but.... His whole life was shattering apart. Or maybe, he thought, as Methos nuzzled his shoulder, it was coming together, right here, right now. Methos' mouth was even hotter and more erotic than....

They exchanged sleepy kisses, lips soft and moist, yielding, not demanding. Duncan stroked the back of Methos' head, feeling the hair there, soft as any pelt he'd ever cured, and Methos tucked his head into the curve of Duncan's neck.

He felt warm and satiated, but his mind wouldn't stop spinning. Why now? After all this upheaval and conflict, why was Methos doing this? Touching him, sending warmth and need spiking in his chest until he could hardly breathe, warmth moving down into his belly until it felt all hot and heavy. Methos played idly with a nipple and seemed content to just rub himself up against Duncan like some great cat. With a surge of restless energy, Duncan held his lover and rolled over, now on top and determined to chase away all his disquieting thoughts with the taste of that long white neck under his tongue.

But he couldn't turn his mind off. What about Benny? he asked himself. This ghost, this revenant from his past, seemed determined to destroy anyone he loved, and here he was pouring himself all over Methos, putting him in jeopardy, too. Methos. Smooth, slick, sweat-dampened skin. Tasted so good. But what aboutshut up, shut up. Feels too good, feels so right, like coming home. So familiar, and yet so strange.

"What's the matter, Duncan?" Methos whispered, his breath tickling his shoulder. "You seem distracted. Am I boring you?" Methos nibbled at the junction of neck and shoulder, then bit down, sucking at the skin. Duncan could feel the blood rise to the surface, the tiny capillaries breaking to briefly form a rosy stain on his skin that would almost instantly disappear, the miniscule flashes of healing energy unseen by the naked eye.

Duncan rolled away, his arm flopping over his eyes. "Could life possibly get more complicated?" he asked with a groan.

The phone rang.

Methos started to laugh.

Duncan glared at him.

"Oh, don't worry, Highlander," said Methos, grinning like the Cheshire cat, "it's probably just a phone solicitor. Let the machine answer."

Duncan tried to ignore it, but despite Methos' best efforts, he couldn't help listening as the machine clicked on.

"Pierson, this is Girard."

Duncan felt Methos freeze and heard the half-whispered 'fuck.'

"We're attempting to reach--"

Methos was up off the bed and grabbing the phone before Duncan could even move. He turned onto his side to watch as Methos talked quickly and quietly on the line before almost slamming it down as the brief conversation ended.

Methos glared at the phone, and the silence stretched between them, neither of them saying anything. Then he stretched out his long body with a sigh, lay back on the bed, and rolled onto his side, resting his cheek on his hand, a playful smile pulling up one side of his mouth. "You have a gift for complication, MacLeod."

So that's the way he was going to play it. Duncan closed his eyes and put his arm over them to block out the light. Whatever the phone call had been about, it wasn't good.

He felt Methos' breath next to his ear. "But is Clare the greater complication, or am I?"

Duncan lifted his arm long enough to cast an annoyed glance at Methos before hiding behind his forearm again. "Don't flatter yourself. I've had lovers that were both Immortal and male before--" His breath caught as he remembered Jacob, and he quickly turned his thoughts away from those memories. "-- you weren't my first." Duncan let his arm slide to above his head and peered at Methos. "That is what you were thinking, isn't it?" he asked, his dark brows huddled together in the middle of his forehead while he wondered whether he was offended or amused. "That you deflowered an innocent?"

"No, Highlander," Methos' smile had evolved into a full-fledged grin. His long fingers trailed appreciatively over Duncan's stomach, tickling slightly. "Your knowledge of the basics is firm, and your notably vocal enthusiasm more than made up for any slight deficiencies in technique."

Duncan almost rose to the bait, drawing breath to respond to the friendly insult with a challenge of his own, but his conscience would not allow him to be so easily distracted. "What did Gerard want? Is Clare alright?" he asked.

"Who?" Methos was being deliberately obtuse, pretending intense concentration on the contents of Duncan's belly button.

"Dammit, what did he want?" Mac insisted.

"Damn, troublesome woman!" Methos muttered. He crawled onto Mac's chest, snuggling his face back into the crook of Duncan's neck, letting his teeth graze over his collarbone, followed by a gentler nip of soft lips. "We have far more interesting things to do than traipse around in the dark, searching for your latest groupie. She'll track you down eventually. In the meantime...." Methos' tongue continued to paint warm, wet trails across Duncan's neck and shoulders as his long frame undulated from hips to chest, drawing a long intake of breath from the body beneath him.

With a low snarl of frustration, Duncan gripped Methos' shoulders and rolled them both, ending up on top, forcing Methos to look directly into his eyes. "Clare escaped? Damn! Don't you realize that means she's out there alone, with Benny, or whatever that thing is, on the loose?"

"All you'll do if you try to ride to her rescue is piss her off, you know. Women's lib, 'I am woman, hear me roar,' and all that," Methos insisted.

Duncan wrapped his big hand around the other man's sharp chin to hold it still. "Methos!" he warned.

Methos' mouth twisted in disapproval, and he cast his eyes upward in surrender. "Oh, all right. She left Watcher headquarters several hours ago, and no one has any idea where she is."

"Well, I do." Duncan rolled off of him, sitting up on the side of the bed, shoulders slumped, half-way to angry and not sure who or what exactly he was angry with, other than himself. "And it's hardly a surprise. Your Watcher friends' security is full of holes. When I went after Shapiro, it took me about ten minutes to slice through every layer of security they had, even when they knew I was probably coming." Duncan grabbed for his discarded shorts and jeans, pulling them on with a jerk. "I should have expected this."

* * *

Methos watched Mac fume for a moment, then rolled to the other side of the bed with a gusty sigh of frustration, wondering if they would ever get past Mac's sense of betrayal over Galati. Mac considered trust and friendship to be near-inviolate, and Methos felt a chill brush his skin at the thought of what he would think of Methos' more sordid centuries.

But he still could not bring himself to care about the death of Jacob Galati. Mac lived, that was the important thing. Methos was more than willing to make that bargain again; he hoped he would never have to.

Unfortunately, he was pretty certain that Clare had made that a forlorn hope. He'd touched the impossible, held Duncan in his arms, and she was ripping that away from him when she wasn't even here.

"And you are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he intoned darkly, reaching for his own clothes, anger spiking at his own unwillingness to ever even address the issue. "I would expect nothing less."

Mac ignored the sarcastic dig. "As you said, Methos, Clare is a little too smart for her own good." Mac glared at him. "Obviously she's not going to go back to her place, and even more obviously not back here."

"So she'll go to your barge, of course," Methos snapped. He wasn't sure what they were fighting about anymore, about Mac running after Clare or maybe Galati again, and he wasn't sure it mattered. "And you're afraid this," he slipped his arms into his pullover and tugged it down, his head popping through the opening as he finished his phrase, "Benny-ghost thing you've managed to dredge up from your past might be around to welcome her."

"That's a possibility," Mac sounded grim. He slipped his shoes on and stood. "I'm sorry, Methos, but we'll have to, uh, continue this later."

"Later, when? And what this?" 'This' was just sex as far as Mac was concerned; he knew that. But it still hurt, though he'd never let Mac see how empty he felt right now. He covered it up with anger, so much anger he didn't have to think about control, and then he went on the attack.  It only took an instant. Methos threw back the bedspread and stared down at the rumpled sheets. "You mean this?"

Mac's anger seemed to drain out of him, his hands unclenching, the visible tension in his shoulders and neck seeping away. "After I've gotten rid of this thing with Benny and somehow managed to explain to Clare...."

"Explain what?" Methos snarled back, not bothering to rein in his anger at himself, at Clare, at Duncan, at the world. "The woman is infatuated with you, and disgusted and irritated by me. What are you going to explain?"

"Clare knew it what it was that night. She doesn't expect anything more."

"Are you sure? I think you may have gotten your signals crossed somewhere, because that's not what it looked like to me. To me, it looked like she was already picking out the wedding china."

"She's an adult--"

"She's a groupie." He grabbed at whatever weapon was at hand, smiling grimly as his words struck a solid blow. Methos smirked, watching Mac don his coat and take a defensive stance in front of him, ready to flee. "We see them all the time in the Watchers, men and women so infatuated with Immortals that they would do anything. Field Watchers especially have problems with it. So, are you going to explain to this star-struck, vulnerable woman you've just fucked that the great Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod is tossing her over for a man?"

Duncan ignored him, and that pushed Methos even further over the edge. Damn it, he was going to make Duncan listen to him once and for all. "For that matter, with a willing female around, why are you even bothering--" His words were cut off as Mac grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet.

"Shut up, Methos," he snarled. "What happened, what's between us, is not like anything I've ever known or felt. Don't diminish it by comparing it to some momentary comfort found with a near-stranger, no matter her sex...or yours." He dropped Methos and stepped back, as if surprised at his own anger.

After a moment of just staring at one another, Mac moved towards the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. "Coming?" he asked.

The look on Mac's face was grim around the mouth, but blatantly hopeful around the eyes. What have I gotten myself into, Methos wondered, a sizzle of something very much like fear crawling up his spine, dissipating the residual anger. He'd pushed too hard, he knew that, but at the time it seemed important. Mac was more important though, and Mac did nothing by half measures. Not friendship, and not love. Especially love. Methos pushed his feet into his boots and shuffled towards the door, trying not to trip over his laces, and trying even harder not to think about what Mac might have meant.  
 


	12. Chapter 12

The smell was overpowering, making her gasp and cough even before the hand closed over her mouth. Clare grabbed at her attacker, yanking on the impossibly strong arm, realizing as she did that she had dropped her keys, the one defensive weapon she might have used. Then she was picked up and moved up the gangplank like some overactive manikin. She screamed, but her voice was muffled behind the hand. She kicked, but her feet found no purchase. She struggled, but the arm around her waist and holding her head stiffened. Down the stairs into the barge they went, her feet dragging and banging against each step as she kicked and squirmed. Then she was slammed up against the cold metal bulkhead and held there. Shaking in terror, she desperately pulled air into her nose to keep from passing out.

It was dark. Only the lights filtering from the street at least fifty feet away made it through the portholes on the other side, and all Clare could see was a shadow.

"You are his woman. The Demon MacLeod." It was an odd voice. Rough, male, but with a resonance that was strangely soft.

Clare was too terrified to respond. The hard hands left her almost reluctantly, except for fingers trailing along her cheek, down her neck, pausing between her breasts and hovering there.

She swallowed, every muscle in her body tense, primed to run given the slightest opportunity. "What...who are you?" she finally said, even though she knew the answer. This was Benny Carbassa. This was the thing that had ripped out the heart of that doctor at the psychiatric hospital. This was Duncan's ghost, his unforgiving revenant from a haunted, violent past.

The creature's fingernails scraped down her throat, stinging where they scratched her skin. The smell was overwhelming, the scent of an unwashed body mixing with dirt, terror, and blood. Clare swallowed, trying to hold herself together, looking for a way out of this. Maybe if she got it to talk, it would hold off the inevitable.

She should never have left the Watcher compound. And she wouldn't have, had Girard not been so high-handed about taking her into protective custody. The man was an idiot.

Damn you, Girard. "Why didn't you at least give me a gun?" Said softly and unintentionally, Clare was surprised at how loud her own voice was and the way it echoed in the room. The words had just slipped out, but at least it sounded like life. She was tempted to babble, to fill up the silence and say anything, the warmth and familiarity of her own voice soothing to her, but it wouldn't help the situation at all.

She was scared, yes, and she needed to hold it together. "Is your name Mary?" It was the first question she thought of, and she grabbed for it like a life raft.

The vaguely obscene petting stopped, and the hand withdrew; Clare felt like throwing up.

"Once," the creature said. "No more."

"Then who are you?"

"I am what MacLeod has made me." Clare could see its eyes burning with intensity within the shadows that surrounded it. "Just as you are what he made you."

"No." The denial was immediate and forceful. "No one made me. I made myself: Clare Winge." Saying her name seemed to bring strength to her shaking knees and allowed her to take a deep, steadying breath. "We met at the hospital. I went there to help you. I still want to help you."

"Help me? Ah," the voice exhaled softly. "Then you will tell me where the Demon is. You will bring him here."

Clare's thoughts spun in furious circles, trying to find the loophole that would get her out of here and someplace safe. If she got Duncan here, he could deal with this. Fuck, she wished she knew what to do. Calling him could put him in danger, yet -- he was Immortal, and he was Duncan MacLeod. One of the best.

But would it be enough?

Sometimes youíve got to wonder if they are really human.

Well, there was no doubt that she was human, and that this...creature was his problem, Clare grimly told herself. Heroics are all well and good when you spontaneously heal, but she wasn't Immortal. Duncan got himself into this mess, and he could get both of them out.

"Yes. I can get him here, but not if you hurt me." Clare worked to keep her voice steady, but it still seemed to crack and wobble in her throat.

The shadow's low chuckle scattered her hard-won composure like dandelion seeds in a high wind. "Hurt you?" Hands trailed across her cheek, making her flinch and grit her teeth to keep them from chattering with terror. "Not yet," the voice whispered. "Not yet."

* * *

Methos lived on the fourth floor of a building built right after World War One and renovated at least twenty-five years ago. He had a window in the studio living room, one over an alley in the bathroom, and no fire escape. Four floors didn't seem like much to walk, but right now Mac seemed ready to leap out the window rather than wait for the elevator. Methos leaned heavily on the button and waited for the lift to creak its way up to them, ignoring Mac as much as possible, and finally noticed his shoes were untied.

He crouched down to tie them while Mac shifted his weight impatiently. Eager as usual, Methos thought, to rush in where angels fear to tread. The lift arrived, and Mac jumped like a race hound, bolting through the door the moment it opened.

Methos thought he heard the faint sound of a phone. Might be the Watchers; maybe they'd found Clare. He was already turning back for his apartment. "I'll meet you in the lobby."

Mac grabbed his arm and pulled him into the lift before he could even be certain whether the ringing had been coming from his apartment.

"Fine," he snarled as the elevator slowly crept down toward the lobby. "What's the big rush, anyway? That was probably Clare on the phone. She's probably sitting around your barge, drinking your wine, fantasizing about re-decorating in chintz and Victoriana."

"Well, that would be better than your choice, wouldn't it? Post-modern Bauhaus?"

"Oh, you know me too well."

"Hardly," Mac said almost under his breath.

"Just give me your cell phone so I can check messages."

Instantly, Mac fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his phone, as if the thin possibility of hope was too much for him to resist.

No messages. Can this elevator move any slower? Methos thought as he slid the phone into his own pocket. At least they were talking, now, not yelling or...being incredibly silent with one another. That had to count for something.

He glanced at Mac, who looked as stressed as Methos felt. Arguing wasn't going to solve any problems right now. Just find Clare, make sure she was safe, and then they could deal with...other issues.

Say, for example, what all their kissing and screwing around meant, if anything.

He offered up an olive branch, teasing Mac gently to break the tension, leading them back onto familiar ground. "A totally re-designed barge, by Walter Gropius, don't you think?" Or maybe not so familiar. Methos grinned, leaning in close and letting his hand wander underneath Mac's coat, finally resting on his ass. "At least the name is kind of catchy." He squeezed a tight cheek, causing Mac to lurch forward just as the door opened on the ground floor, almost bowling over an elderly woman and her Pekinese.

Timing was everything.

"Smart ass," Mac growled, but the dark look was diluted somewhat by the quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Besides, Gropius has been dead for twenty years."

"Are you sure?" Methos asked, delighted at the momentary startled and questioning look he got.

"You're kidding! He's not...?" Mac paused and looked up at him from the bottom of the building's steps, then shook his head with a smile. "You do have a gift for yanking my chain."

"And such a handsome chain it is," Methos commented as he passed by, spotting Mac's car a little over a block away. He sauntered in that direction, crossing the street while Mac waited for the light to turn.

The cell phone rang.

Methos fished it out of his pocket and answered it. "Adam Pierson."

"Where's Duncan?" Her voice was panicked and breathy, desperate. He knew that tone of voice too well: stark fear.

Methos didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until it whooshed out. "Clare." Methos was at the car now, Mac still a half a block away. Methos waved to him then turned his attention back to the call. "Where the hell are you?"

The line went dead.

* * *

The creature moved its hand off the phone. "No talking if he's not there."

"But--" Clare began a protest which died when one finger was raised in front of her face, a finger that then touched her lips. She could feel the muscles in her face tremble and quiver. She had to sip in a breath before she dared pull her head back so she could speak without those dry, hard fingers on her face.

"It's Duncan's phone. He may know where Duncan is," she whispered, hating the quaver in her voice. She needed somebody, anybody, to help, and the sound of Adam's voice had almost reduced her to tears. "Duncan may even be with him. Please, let me call him back!"

"You are very pretty, Clarewinge." The shadow spoke her name as though it were all one word, once again touching her face. Clare swallowed, almost certain she was going to throw up. "What is it like to make love with a demon?"

"Please--"

"You know, I lived and died a virgin. We came so close," the rough voice caught, then went on. "Jonathan wanted to make love, but I denied him, made him wait. I never knew what it was like. Never had a man inside me." The shadow pressed close. Clare could see Benny's face now, the skin slack from weight loss, the muscles twitching spastically as the body tried to accommodate foreign expressions and emotions. Clare wondered briefly if Benny was aware, if the man knew what had been done with his body. It was a horrifying thought, but it steadied her a little, thinking of someone besides herself.

"Jonathan loved you, Mary," Clare used the names in hopes of triggering some vestige of humanity. "He would want to see you at rest. He would want you to be happy. He wouldn't want you to hurt anyone."

"Jonathan." The name was a dry whisper. "Jonathan is dead. He was a soldier, you know. He wore the most beautiful red coat, with golden buttons on it." Dirty, bloody fingers trailed through Clare's hair, and Clare's convulsive trembling worsened. She couldn't keep a small, terrified cry from escaping her lips. "He always told me I had the most beautiful hair. Auburn hair. Like yours. Just like yours."

Clare pressed her back up against the wall, ready to open her mouth in a scream, but found she couldn't move. Her lips were numb, her hearing dimmed, as though sounds were muffled and distant. An aching, icy cold swept over and through her and the scream that her voice refused to sound echoed, unheard in her brain....

* * *

Duncan pelted up the street to where Methos was frantically waving at him, only to hear the 'Fuck!' he yelled as the line apparently went dead. He slowed down as Methos held the phone out to him, the strain showing on his face.

"Clare."

Duncan hit the sequence for last incoming call. "The barge." He glanced back at Methos and wondered if he looked as stricken as Methos did. For all their jokes about Clare at the barge, neither of them had expected her to go there like some love struck teenager.

At least, he didn't think they had. He unlocked the door and looked back at Methos, who avoided looking at him.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Methos had expected it, after all. Maybe Methos had a clearer vision of Clare than he did, blinded as he was by guilt and confusion. He got into the driver's seat and threaded the car out into traffic, Methos silent and still next to him, yet managing to convey anger and unease. It had to mean something that she had gone to the barge, something he was missing, something Methos had caught--

"Mac, she was afraid." Methos took a deep breath and let it out carefully. "Very afraid."

"You think--" Benny.

"I'm sure." He shifted his weight in the seat, trying to stretch out. "But she's safe at the moment."

"Are you sure?"

Methos hesitated, sending a chill up Duncan's spine. His answer was short and sweet when he finally responded: "No."

"Call her." Duncan shoved the phone in Methos' lap as he drove. "Get her on the phone and keep her there if you can." He changed lanes only to have to hit the brakes as the traffic slowed to a crawl. They were still miles from the barge.

Methos silently punched in the number; Mac distractedly realized that Methos had it memorized. He spotted an opening in the lane next to him and slid into it; the driver behind him leaned on his horn as Duncan cut him off.

Duncan had Methos' number memorized, too -- the last dozen, if he stopped to think about it. Methos changed his number a lot. Funny how they both kept up with what the other one was doing. Maybe they were more tightly bound up in each other's lives than he had allowed himself to think about.

After a few minutes of listening, Methos spoke into the phone. "Clare? Clare, it's Adam, pick up the phone." He waited a few more seconds, then stabbed the instrument off. "I hate answering machines," he grumbled as he shoved the phone into his pocket.

Duncan nodded distractedly, his attention focused on finding an alternate route.

"You know, I find it amazing that you've kept the same bloody identity for four hundred years! "This is MacLeod, please leave a message," Methos intoned, imitating and exaggerating Mac's slightly deeper voice. "You'd think someone would manage to figure out that it's the same idiot after all these years. All they have to do is look in the fucking phone book!"

Wondering what the heck had gotten into Methos, Duncan glanced over at his passenger the next time traffic stopped. Gone was the normal, casual sprawl Methos preferred; he was stretched drum-tight, sitting forward in his seat. Obviously, Methos was as upset about Clare as he was; and with Methos, anxiety was a hair's breadth from anger.

"Mac! You missed an opening. If you kept your eyes on the road, we might eventually get there."

Mac swallowed a nasty retort. It would not do to have them both lose their tempers. He hit the heel of his hand on the horn as some idiot taxi driver cut him off trying to turn onto Pont du Neuf. "Damn it! The Metro would have been faster."

"Walking would have been faster," Methos snarled, nearly thrown into the dashboard when Mac slammed on the brakes.

They sat silently in the motionless traffic for a few moments, giving Mac time to think about their so-called plan to deal with Benny and get Clare out of harm's way. His mind spun, trying to think of a way to get rid of both Clare and Methos so he could deal with Benny on his own. Having people he cared about put at risk because of something ugly out of his past felt well-nigh intolerable, sending repeated waves of chills and anxiety plowing through his system like a fever.

"I think," he began, his thoughts forming as he spoke them, not sure where he was headed with them, "I think you should hang back. Let me deal with this thing, with Benny. It's after me, and if it's got me, I should be able to distract it long enough for Clare to get away. Then she'll need for you to be there to make sure she gets clear."

"Then what?" Methos snapped, eyeing him with a knowing smirk. "You'll take Benny's head?" Methos made a derisive, snorting noise and turned away, arms crossed, staring out at the river across the stalled bridge traffic. "I know you, Mac. Benny's your friend, and he's under the influence of some...some thing we can't even figure out. You will do your damnedest to treat him like some poor, helpless orphan child whose plight is all your fault. The man's a psychopathic killer, MacLeod. Somebody's got to be there to do what's necessary."

"And that's your job, is it?" Mac retorted. He could feel his jaw and neck almost convulse with the irritation and frustration this man seemed to generate. "Doing what's necessary?"

"As I recall, that's included saving your hide more than once!"

"I never asked you to kill anyone."

The silence that engulfed the car was cold and strong as steel, and Mac knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had just screwed up. How was it that they'd only known each other for two years and yet they already had more than their share of ghosts?

"No, you never have." Methos' breath came out in a controlled sigh, and Mac wondered if he was thinking about their past the way he was, about what happened with Kristen...and Jacob. "But sometimes it had to be done."

* * *

Methos decided that even the pollution-laden air of a traffic jam was better than being cooped up in a car, unable to breathe. He rolled down the window, not even looking in Mac's direction. That they were back to the Galati affair was no surprise; it seemed sadly inevitable at this point. Methos could almost hear Mac's teeth grinding together as traffic inched forward a few more feet. He could certainly see the shadows ripple as the man clenched his jaw again and again.

"Methos...." Mac surprised him, his tone neither angry nor accusing. In fact, the words seemed to be painfully squeezed out of Mac's chest with every exhalation. "I don't....You don't have to fight this battle for me. I created this mess, and I will fix it."

Traffic started to move, and Duncan fell silent, intent on driving. Methos settled back into his seat, thinking about what Duncan had said. There was some implication here that he was missing, and Methos wasn't sure that was so bad. Part of him suspected that 'you don't have to fight this battle for me' actually meant 'I don't want you to die.'

And 'I don't want you to die' was damn near 'I love you.' The thought made him uncomfortable. Mac's voice dragged him out of his thoughts.

"I can't lose you, Methos. Or Clare. I...I don't know what we're dealing with, and I don't know how to fight it, but I will do what ever I have to, to make sure it ends here." He flexed his hands around the wheel, and Methos could see how white they were, and how the knuckles were slowly turning pink again as the blood flowed back into Mac's hands. " I don't want anyone else hurt because of me." Mac turned to look at him, dark eyes huge in the small confines of the car.

Methos had to look away. He wasn't comfortable with such sharp, honest emotion -- but it had rather put paid to his idea that Mac felt something more than his general concern for those he cared about -- a thought that made him feel even worse. His stomach churned -- or maybe that was his heart twisting inside his chest. Damn, but Duncan had a knack for slicing him open, making him feel exposed and vulnerable and small and mean all at the same time. He rubbed the back of his neck, massaging the knot of tension there, letting go of the defensive anger that had begun to gather in his belly. "I'm not going to get hurt." As he put his hand back down, he wanted very much to reach out, to rest his hand reassuringly on the taut thigh that was so close, but he restrained himself. "And we'll try to keep Clare safe."

Mac shot him another concerned, stubborn glance. "I'll--"

"We," Methos stressed the word, not letting Mac get a word in edgewise, "will do this. Shut me out and all we'll do is get in each other's way, which will put us both at risk. You've been in more than enough military campaigns to know that."

To Methos' surprise, Mac jerked his head in assent and briefly squeezed Methos' thigh in the same gesture Methos had denied himself only seconds before -- which sent his heart twisting again.

They finally squeezed past the fender-bender accident that had tied up the road, and traffic surged around them. Mac was finally able to get a clear shot to the Quay de la Tournelle.

All looked quiet as they drove along, the tires bumping noisily on the old paving stones. Mac cut the engine and the lights as they got close, rolling to a stop. There was a single light on inside the barge, and the two men stepped cautiously out of the car, closing the doors with as little sound as possible given the resonating canyon formed by the hard stone walls of the quay and the surrounding bridges. A fine mist filled the air, pricking against the skin with tiny cold pinpoints, and diffusing and dimming the brightness of the streetlights. As they approached the gangway, Mac leaned down and picked something up, silently showing the object to his companion. It was a set of keys.

With a jerk of his head, Mac indicated that Methos should go to the aft entrance that led in through the bedroom, and Mac slowly walked towards the main entrance. They paused and shared a long look across the deck when they felt another Immortal presence, oddly faint and muddled. Silently, Methos moved towards the stern while Mac headed inside.

"Clare?" Mac stepped into the entryway and looked around, his breath misting in the damp, chilly air. One lamp was lit over by the galley, leaving the rest of the large, open space in shadows. He could see her lying on the couch, and for a moment his heart stopped, fearing she was already dead. But Clare's head turned towards him, her expression hidden in the shadows.

"Duncan?"

Her voice was low and sounded...dusty, a little hoarse. Perhaps she had fallen asleep. Right. After she'd been so frightened when she'd been talking with Methos? And where was Benny?

Mac moved slowly down the stairs, carefully scanning the room, sending his senses into overdrive trying to determine where Benny was. He wished that Immortal presence could be used as a locator device, but it wasn't that specific. He caught sight of the aft entrance opening, and Methos stepped silently into the far side of the room.

"Clare," he called, not wanting to give up his options yet and end up with Benny at his back. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she murmured, in that same husky voice. "Come here," she called, reaching out towards him. "Come to me."

Benny had to be nearby. That's why Clare was acting so oddly; he must be in the shadows close to her. Mac stepped further into the room, now equally concerned about Methos, who was circling silently around the platform area of the bedroom. Mac could see a tiny reflection of light along the edge of Methos' blade, but all the rest was just shadows. He chose not to draw his own sword, not wanting to frighten Clare any more than necessary. "Where's Benny?"

"It's just us." Clare turned, propping herself up on her elbow, letting the afghan fall away, exposing the soft white skin of her breasts. She reached out to him. "Come to me, Duncan," she whispered, her voice carrying oddly in the semi-darkness. "I've been waiting for you. Make love to me." There was an ugly scent in the room, and chills washed over Mac as he recognized that same dead animal smell that had almost overwhelmed him in Benny's hospital room.

The inherent wrongness put Mac's nerves on a fine edge, but he moved closer. Whatever threat was here, his first priority was to protect Clare. Maybe the creature had drugged her somehow, to make her manageable? "Get dressed," he insisted, not really looking at her, intent on finding where Benny might be hiding.

Nothing. The only movement he could see was Methos on the other side of the barge. Benny wasn't here.

This was too easy. The creature had drugged Clare and left her as bait. So where was the trap?

Her hand reached out to him, to draw him down beside her. "Just a kiss?" she whispered. "Just one kiss for your true love?" She pulled herself up, wrapping her arms around him, hungrily opening her mouth.

"Clare, it isn't safe. We have to get you out of here." Mac tried to reason with her, but her hands were all over him, reaching under his shirt, her mouth moving over his face. "Clare, stop it. I need your help." He finally gave up on trying to get her to act sensibly and tried to wrap the afghan around her so he could carry her to the car. But the fumbling turned savage, and her lips became sharp teeth mauling his face, his neck, and the hand exploring under his shirt became a weapon, a blunt instrument tearing at the flesh of his breastbone, sinking into his side. He must have cried out, because one minute he was trapped in a horrifyingly strong grip, and the next he was on the floor, coughing in wracking spasms, watching his blood dribble onto the floor boards.

Clare was the bait and the trap.

* * *

Methos crept down the back stairs, staying to the shadows. Mac had made his way down the steps on the other side of the barge and was hunched over the couch, quietly talking to Clare. She was alive, then, and apparently uninjured, since Mac hadn't called him over to help. Methos breathed a sigh of relief, and set his worries about Clare aside, letting Mac deal with the mortal. Benny was still here somewhere, and he was the real threat. But where? Keeping one eye on Mac as he moved toward the couch, Methos circled around the bedroom platform, his blade drawn and ready, finding nothing.

He took a few tentative steps further into the main room and stopped. Mac was trying to wrap Clare up in the afghan, trying to get her out of the barge. Where was Benny? The deep shadows camouflaged the interior, so he let his mind establish the remembered layout of this room where he and Mac had spent some treasured evenings in easy, familiar camaraderie. There, behind the desk, a darker shadow. He stepped closer, leaned down, and his skin went cold.

"Mac!" he shot to his feet, but it was too late. Clare had her arms around MacLeod, her teeth sunk into his face. Methos vaulted over the desk, grabbed Clare by the hair, and jerked her back, only to see her hands dug deep into Mac's chest, rivulets of blood running down her arms. He grabbed at her hands just as Mac jerked away, rolling to the floor, and all three of them tumbled, pulling Methos over the top of the couch and down. He scrambled for his sword, and by the time he was on his feet, Clare was standing, staring at him, her eyes travelling back and forth between him and Mac, who was on his hands and knees on the floor, coughing up blood.

Methos moved between them, letting his blade rise until it was pointed at her chest. "Benny's behind the desk, unconscious." Methos reported, although it now seemed unnecessary. "What do you want me to do with her?"

Mac turned, sitting on his knees while he caught his breath, gritting his teeth against the pain, waiting to heal. "Clare?" he whispered through split and bleeding lips, then doubled over, choking on blood in his throat.

The thing just laughed a low, dry chuckle that was worse than any scream. She tapped her naked chest with a bloody hand. "She's inside, watching." She stepped back, circling around the two men, but Methos' blade never wavered as he kept himself between her and MacLeod.

The creature's eyes followed every move that Methos made.

"I've waited so long, MacLeod," she whispered. "I needed you here before I could do this." She reached up and stuck her bloody nails into her own cheek, gouging from eye to mouth. "Now you'll know what it's like to lose the one you love. As long as I have her, you can't take her back." She smiled, an ugly sight, as if Clare's skin didn't fit her face. "Don't worry, it will be slow. You'll have time to say goodbye."

Methos watched her like a hawk, listening to her words, hearing her speak in a voice that over the centuries had developed a power that sank deep into the soul. Duncan was still coughing up blood; Methos wondered if he would live. In any case, he wouldn't be in any shape to take Clare on for awhile.

No, even though Duncan didn't want Methos to fight his battles, it looked like this one was his to fight. He had to stop her from doing Clare any further injury. Bracing himself next to Duncan's body, he tried to figure out what to do next.

The thing in Clare's body cocked its head at him with an amused smile, made grotesque by the blood smeared across her mouth and chin. "You are his defender, then? His advocate?" Her eyes narrowed slightly as she stepped closer, heedless of the sharp blade almost pricking the skin of her breast. "Or perhaps even more?"

Mac gasped; Methos could hear him trying to get to his feet. "Stay down!" he hissed. "I can't watch you both."

"He is no part of this, Mary," Mac groaned. "Neither is Clare." Methos heard him collapse again and hoped that he'd finally died. He wasn't sure if he could deal with Mac's heroic tendencies at the moment, not and get Clare out of here alive.

"Oh?" She practically purred. "You killed my lover. Of course they're involved."

Methos wanted to shake his head with the force of the realization that struck him. Of course that's what this was about -- the lover. Mac could be such a fool at times. He was amazed at how steady his voice was when he spoke. "Then you don't want her, Mary. You want me."


	13. Chapter 13

Mary sniffed the air. MacLeod's scent was strong and fresh on the other man's skin. The thought made her stomach roil. Of course, the demon wouldn't care about gender; seduction of a man or a woman, it was all the same. Corruption of innocents was simply one more crime that the creature had committed.

She could hear Clare stirring within her, yelling about the man -- Adam? -- she thought. She sorted through Clare's memories and came up with an image, the demon kissing Adam, and given how Adam stank of the demon, it hadn't stopped there.

Anger, indignation, and self-righteousness burned through her, part hers and part Clare's. The demon had seduced Clare and thrown her aside, taking up with a man in her place. It was a perversion the likes of which she had never imagined. She smiled. This would be more than vengeance; it would be justice. Justice for what this demon had done across the centuries.

"Yes," she hissed, blinking as she examined the man in front of her. "You are the one I want."

  


Shivering, Duncan felt his skin grow cold. His lung was badly, possibly fatally, mauled, and he kept coughing up bright red foam. It was weakening him, blood loss and injury blurring his vision and casting his limbs in lead, unable to do anything but watch.

Clare and Methos were staring at each other like a couple of snakes trying to figure out which one was predator and which was prey. _What the hell is Methos up to_ , Duncan wondered, tensing and bringing on another coughing fit. He struggled to breathe, to bring his coughing under control. He could not fathom what Methos had planned.

"They say vengeance is best served cold," Methos said softly, still watching Clare. "And you are cold, aren't you, Mary?"

"Oh, aye, the grave is a very cold place."

* * *

Methos' mind raced in several different directions. He'd been a fool, letting himself get trapped this way. What had he been thinking, helping Mac? This wasn't the way to survive.

But sometimes there were things more important than survival. It was a like a pendulum, his priorities swinging back and forth between friendship and survival. Or love and survival. He glanced quickly at Mac, whose dark eyes were glittering with pain and desperate fear, but not for himself. Mac started to voice some protest, but choked on his words, doubling over as blood dribbled from his mouth.

Methos took a deep breath, steadying himself, and turned back to the thing occupying Clare's body, this revenant, this hate-inspired spirit out for vengeance on a man who had long ago paid the price for his deeds with a life lived in honor and service.

"No lover's warmth to keep you company, no fire but your own hatred," he said softly, trying to keep her talking, distracted, while he considered his options. They were alarmingly limited. Whatever the revenant had done, or intended to do, Clare didn't deserve to die. And even if he killed Clare, that was no guarantee the revenant wouldn't simply take over another body -- maybe even his own.

Now there was a chilling thought. He might be able to overcome her, but he wasn't ready to risk that much.

The fact was he'd run out of ideas. All except one. The sheer stupidity and desperation of it made him smile. Mac would be shocked to learn that his professed intricate manipulations and plans were all half improvisation, though he'd prefer not to admit that.

And this one was bizarrely simplistic. Clare didn't know about his Immortality. The odds were that Mary believed him to be mortal. That gave her the opportunity to take her vengeance out just as she wished -- on him.

Once, long ago, Cassandra had told him that ghosts from the past could be exorcised only when they had finished the task that kept them bound to the earthly plane. Fulfill the debt, she had said, and the spirit was released. At the time, he hadn't believed her. And now? He knew it was stupid to rely on words of a woman who hated his guts, but sometimes you had to have faith. Hopefully Mary would leave in peace before he started to heal.

His mouth went dry at the prospect of what he was considering, even while that other, rational part of his brain was screaming at him that this was Not Something He Did.

Methos moved in close to Mary and laid his sword to the side, kneeling in front of her. He sighed, swallowed, and closed his eyes. MacLeod was never going to let him live this one down.

* * *

Duncan's vision was blurring dangerously, and he sucked in as much air as he could, trying to clear his head as Clare's body traced a bloodied finger over Methos' pale, sweating face, his elegant nose, his long, white neck.

"I will be quick with you. You have suffered enough at the demon's hands." She leaned in and gave Methos a gentle kiss. "You are his victim as much as I."

Methos knelt there, looking stunned, his eyes closed, barely breathing. "Please be quick."

This was insane. Methos really planned to let her rip out his heart? But what happened then? What happened if she didn't stop there? What if she ripped off his head, as well as ripped out his heart? "No!" he ground out. The strength to stand came from somewhere that had nothing to do with his failing body. He staggered up and over to them, determined to put himself between Methos and Clare.

Clare didn't even look at him. With a single, impossibly strong backhanded swipe, she lifted him off his feet and threw him against the barge's steel hull with brutal force. Duncan felt something snap, and his whole body convulsed with a sharp flash of agony; he went utterly cold and completely numb, sliding helplessly down the wall. The "Methos!" that escaped his lips was the merest whisper that only he could hear -- but he could still see.

Clare's small, delicate hands trailed down Methos' long neck to his collarbone. She leaned in, feeling along the prominent ridge of clavicle on either side of his sternum, then rested her fingers in those smooth indentations where Duncan's tongue had so recently licked away salty sweat.

He didn't want to watch, but he couldn't look away.

Clare's eyes grew wide as Methos closed his, a bright, unnatural smile distorting her bloodied, mauled face. For a moment it was as though blood was leaking right out of the tips of her fingers, but it was Methos' blood that flowed as she dug her hands deeper and deeper into his flesh. He gasped, gagged, and his head fell back, but he did nothing to stop her, nothing to defend himself. As if he were hypnotized, he remained still, only the visible tension in his back and arms betraying the effort it took to remain immobile. His white-knuckled hands clutched at the floor, unable to gain purchase; Duncan was sure those strong hands would gouge the wood, as Clare's hands gouged flesh.

His mind stopped interpreting what was happening, the way it did in battle when he just couldn't take in any more. Clare's fingers were deep into Methos' flesh, and with a shout, she yanked outward. Methos' whole body jerked back reflexively, his jaw wide as the long cry of agony echoed around the barge and inside Duncan's head.

Duncan knew he would never forget that sound, that it was burned into his brain, that its echo would haunt him until the end of his days. Methos' body would have fallen backwards, but Clare caught it by the back of the neck. Blood had sprayed everywhere, spatters running in lines over her face, her neck, her chest, dribbling over her breasts and stomach and legs. She was awash in crimson, awash in Methos' blood. It didn't seem real.

For several seconds she just held Methos' dead body in a horrifying tableau, his chest ripped open, organs intact, but exposed. She gently laid him down, taking bizarre care to arrange his limbs in some semblance of order, her fingers dancing through the blood and gore like a child playing with finger paints. She left bloody prints along his arms, on his throat, even on his lips when she pressed her fingers there, as if to silence any soundless words or protests being formed. Chilled, Duncan could see that the lungs still worked to gasp in air, measuring his own labored heartbeat against every breath, and silently thanked God when Methos finally died.

Duncan tasted bile and blood, his stomach lurching. It was over. He waited for something to happen -- for Mary to disappear in a puff of smoke, a flash of lightning, anything -- but time just stretched out. A tour boat passed the barge, the sound of its motor and the passengers it carried a marked contrast to the stillness within.

And still nothing happened. The barge rocked a little in the wake of the tour boat, but that was all. An eerie sense of anticipation filled him; what happened if Methos started to heal before the revenant left? _Please_ , he thought. _Make her go_. "You have what you want," he whispered bitterly, calling the strength from somewhere to speak distinctly enough to be heard. "He's dead, just as you wanted. Go, please...."

* * *

Mary stood, staring down at the man's body. This wasn't the triumph that she'd planned in her mind; she didn't feel the joy that she'd anticipated at finally having her revenge. The demon called to her, asking her to leave, pulling her out of her reverie. "We are not done yet," she said. She opened her hands and let him see what she held, that Adam's heart was now trembling, vibrating in her palm.

The knot of muscle was still warm; it felt alive somehow, unlike any of the others she had consumed. She brought it close, feeling the small residual heat of the body's energy, now lost, drained away with the pool of crimson that spread like a spilled bolt of silk, reflecting light and rippling slightly with the barge's gentle movements. Intrigued, curious, she tasted it, just with the tip of her tongue, and almost dropped it in surprise. The taste was sharp, almost burning, tart and sweet at the same time. She tried again, letting blood flow into her mouth and down her throat, letting her teeth graze the soft flesh. This time she did let go, only vaguely aware of the soft, liquid noise it made when it fell to the floor as her entire body responded to the sensations and images that filled her mind, her chest expanding with a gasp of air, her hands clutching at her own chest, and she moaned, doubling over with a cry.

Death upon death upon death. The burden of regrets for lives lost, of opportunities missed, of searing words, thoughtless actions, of neglect or ignorance or stupidity, stretching across thousands of years. An endless river of regrets that brought into stark relief the memory of each life she had taken in her long, dark journey since that day so long ago when Jonathan had been stolen from her. Her penance, she assumed, for the fulfillment of the curse.

She waited then, as the memories flowed through her, ready to be taken away at last, to finally be allowed to rest. Yet as the memories subsided, something did not seem quite right; it was as if Adam's soul refused its death, just as she herself had done.

She stared at the body, wondering where she'd gone wrong. The pain she'd suffered with since Jonathan's murder was still there, still eating away at her. There was no warmth to this, no satisfaction. It was as if...as if it wasn't quite finished. Something still needed to be done.

A tiny sizzle of sound drew her attention, and she looked down, fascinated as minute flashes of blue lightning danced around the hole she had made, startling her and forcing her to step back. Mary stared in amazement as the flesh began to re-knit itself. It took a long moment of blank astonishment before she made the connection, before she could make any sense of it, but then it all became frighteningly clear. The demon had cast a spell on his lover, making him into a demon like himself.

She felt a spark of recognition from her host; something about this was familiar to her. Mary smiled grimly. Perhaps Clare knew how to kill them.

* * *

Trapped within her own body, silent and horrified, Clare stared at Adam lying in an enormous pool of blood on the floor. Her own hands had done this as she had watched, helpless, cursing the blind, inane, petty jealousy that she knew Mary had picked up from her own thoughts. _No,_ some small, stubborn part of her mind insisted. She was not responsible for this. _No. No. No._ Oh, God, if only she could scream.

She had been frighteningly aware of exactly what happened as Adam had died, had felt the agony that Mary went through as she tasted of Adam's heart, and felt the bitterness after. She had pulled away as far as she could, not wanting to be in touch with her own body or the other spirit that drove it, feeling dirty, violated and unclean. She had been dimly aware that Duncan was dying, was a helpless audience as Adam was brutalized and murdered. Another lover killed. Tragedy on tragedy on tragedy.

At the first spark of blue lightning dancing across Adam's chest, Clare went absolutely still, chilled more than she could have imagined.

Adam Pierson was an Immortal.

For a moment she thought that perhaps he hadn't known, that he was newly become Immortal...but then so many unexplained pieces feel into place. She remembered that he'd carried a sword on board and acted as if he knew how to use it, she recalled the seeming ease with which he'd surrendered himself. Then there were the memories that had flooded through her when his heart....

Even as she thought it, it was as if the revenant felt, then amplified, all of her feelings. Fierce, brutal pain seared her, a sense of betrayal that ate at her mind. If she could have screamed, she would have; she would have thrown books around the barge, broken glassware, anything to purge the feeling from her soul. Adam got everything, didn't he? The respect of his colleagues, Duncan MacLeod, and the greatest brass ring of all: Immortality. She'd thought she knew him, that they were friends, that they had been close -- but she hadn't known anything about him.

And Duncan had known, of course, and he hadn't seen fit to tell her. Slept with her, yes, but that was all. And Adam had known her for years, living a lie, letting her believe...what a fool she had been. What a blind, stupid fool!

Mary's question insinuated itself into her thoughts: _How can I kill the demon?_ The image of a sword instantly flashed through her mind in response. The only way to kill one is to....

Just as quickly as her rage appeared, it vanished as she felt the elated wave of Mary's triumph; it was enough to shock Clare out of her reverie, to bring a startling clarity to her mind. The revenant turned to look at Duncan, and Clare could see the agony on his face...and his fear about what might happen to Adam.

So many things still didn't fit, and her mind spun in confusion and horror as she felt Mary slowly pick up Adam's sword, testing its weight and balance in her too-small hands. Immortals weren't supposed to worry about each other's deaths. What about 'there can be only one?' But the desperation and fear in Duncan's eyes was plain, as was the love and concern. For a lover? Perhaps for a student? In a flash of understanding, she realized that Adam was a new Immortal; he had probably been killed as part of Galati's shooting spree, and Duncan had taken him in. That would explain why Adam had left the Watchers, and why he'd been so uncomfortable around her, and jealous of Duncan's attention to her. It also explained why Duncan was as protective of him as of Clare.

His...affection for Duncan was probably new as well. There had been no longstanding relationship; she hadn't been played for a fool. Adam had to be just as confused as she was about this whole thing.

Oh, God, she didn't really want Adam's death. She didn't want _anyone's_ death. She wanted him to live, just as much as she wanted Duncan to live. One final thought sparked a surge of unbearable horror in Clare's mind. If Mary took Adam's head, Duncan would be forced to take the Quickening, just as he'd been forced to take Jacob Galati's. Friends and lovers, each of them killing each other throughout eternity, and no one to stop the madness this time. No one but her.

* * *

Mary slowly straightened up, the broadsword in her hand. It was heavy, but the edge looked sharp. She lifted the blade and turned to the body, finally knowing what to do, how to end it at last. She would be with Jonathon again, after far, far too long.

"No, oh, Christ, NO!" She could hear the demon's fingers scrabbling on the floor as he ground out the words, trying to get purchase on the hardwood. The demon's voice called to her, but she ignored him. If the creature could move, he would have come for her by now. He was a harmless distraction.

"No." The word was softer this time, tinged with breathless prayer. "I'll beg, I'll do anything you want. Don't kill him, please. Kill me. Take me."

She thought she heard tears, and the helplessness, the anguish, was a balm to her, soothing the pain she had felt for two hundred years. She'd planned on giving the man a clean death, but the demon had cheated, giving him healing power. She'd take her time with this and enjoy her revenge.

The demon's words were almost a song by now. A litany of despairing pleas, a low level noise that caressed her ears. She let the blade dip and touched it to Adam's throat, dragging it along, leaving a fine red line, wondering why the blood didn't flow like it should. Ah! That was right. He had no heart. Like her, he was already dead.

A flutter of coherent thought touched her mind, but the words were not her own: _Don't add another, please, Mary, don't_.

Astonished, she paused, focusing inward, _Clarewinge_?

In the others whose bodies she'd taken, she'd been able sense their feelings, their fears, but their voices had always been wordless chatter or simple images of their past. Words were something new, and Mary could feel the strained effort that Clare poured into speaking to her.

It was...disturbing.

She shook off the feeling and tightened her grip on the sword, but stopped as the words assaulted her again, more forceful than before.

_Mary, no!_

Impatiently, Mary pulled the sword up off the body; she wasn't going to be able to make this slow after all. _He deserves to die,_ she declared to the voice resounding distantly in her head.

Then, it was as if a wall between them shattered, and Mary shuddered and froze, feeling Clarewinge with her, in her, a part of her. She had this shimmering image of the other woman in her mind, her eyes bright with tears begging for Adam's life.

And in her words, Mary heard her own pain.

 _"You already ripped out his heart,"_ Clare said, _"he's dead now. You've fulfilled your curse. It's enough."_

"He won't stay dead! Not like Jonathan!" The revenant felt her own outrage, fed it.

_"No, he won't. And you could kill him again, and again, and again -- or end his life forever, and Duncan would suffer. But will it bring Jonathan back? Will it truly bring you peace? How is killing him again going to be enough?"_

"He lied to you! He betrayed you, stole your lover. Why do you want him to live?"

_"We slept together once, Mary. That didn't make him my lover, however much I wanted it to. I was the one who was the intruder, not Adam, yet he was willing to suffer such a horrible death to save me. Would you have done the same to save a rival of your love? I don't think I would. And look at Duncan! Do you really want to inflict the same kind of pain you've lived with on another creature?"_

"He's a demon, he has no feelings."

_"No, Mary, he's not a demon. Look at him! He's just a man who has lived a very long time. Someone who made mistakes, and who has lost many, many people he loved, just as you loved Jonathon."_

Her hand wrapped around the sword, the blood of an innocent staining her fingers. How many had she killed already for this? She turned and looked at the demon, her eyes meeting his at last. Tears had washed tracks through the blood on his face, and his jaw was clenched in an agony that had little to do with his injuries.

"He needs to hurt, " Mary said, spitting at him, defending her actions, "the way I hurt, the way he hurt you. An eye for an eye, a lover for a lover. Doesn't that seem fair?"

 _"He hurts,"_ Clare said, _"just like I do, just as you did. Let it be enough."_

"He deserves it," Mary snarled at her. "Look what he's done: to me, to you, to this man--"

 _"His name is Adam,"_ Clare interrupted gently. _"And Duncan didn't kill him, you did. You did it with my hands. My hands, Mary. Please, I don't want any more blood on my hands."_

 _No,_ Mary wanted to yell, _the demon did that!_ But she couldn't get her voice to work properly, as waves of emotion washed over her. Pain, yes, the pain from her lover's death, but more than that. Regret. It was if she were being swallowed by it, her soul consumed by the grief she carried, the same way she'd eaten the heart. She felt herself panting, gasping for air as if she were drowning. "The demon--" was all she managed to say.

_"Duncan didn't kill that doctor in the hospital and he didn't kill any of the others before her, Mary. You did. Don't punish me, as well."_

In a flash, Mary saw her actions through Clare's eyes, felt her horror and knew what Clare would feel if she took the demon's head, or that of...Adam. This...regret, this grief, would stay with her, haunting her just as Jonathan's death had haunted Mary for so long. Except that Clare would never be able to purge what happened, could never take vengeance on anyone except herself.

She squatted down by the demon, wrapped her fingers in his hair, and lifted his head up so that she could see into his eyes. She stared intently at him and the tears on his face, feeling the anguish that rolled off of him. "Perhaps living with your past is more painful than dying for it," she whispered. "For Clare, then. And for myself."

She pushed his head away and stood. She still felt empty, but the regret and pain were not so overwhelming now; it was bearable.  Clarewinge was right; it was simply time to go. At the thought, and with her next breath, a feeling of lightness, of warm, sweet relief washed over her. Startled, she looked at the demon. "Is this how it felt?" she asked, lifting her arms out, her face transformed as a smile touched her lips. "When it was over?"

He tried to speak, but no sound passed his lips, just a bubble of bright red blood.

She smiled gently at him. "I will see you in hell, demon."

He was breathing in short, desperate gasps that got even more uneven, paused as he acknowledged the revenant with an almost imperceptible nod, then ended with a soft sigh as his eyes lost their lustrous pain and clouded over as he died.

Clare could feel the revenant shift in her mind, an odd sense of displacement, a lightening of the oppressive weight that had held her trapped in her own body. She felt one last deep breath taken by someone else, then a final, private shared thought. _I am sorry, Clarewinge._

Then Mary was gone, and Clare collapsed onto the floor, her body shaking uncontrollably as she was finally able to cry.

* * *

When Duncan woke with a grating, painful gasp, Clare was huddled on the far side of the barge, staring at the wide pool of blood that surrounded Methos. "I'm sorry," she whispered again and again, rocking back and forth. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Duncan rolled onto his side and rested for a moment, waiting for the pain to be manageable, trying not to look at Methos' body. When he had gathered enough strength, he pushed himself to his feet, stumbled over to her, knelt clumsily, and carefully wiped the blood from her face. "I know, Clare. It wasn't you. It's all right." He reached for the afghan on the couch and wrapped it around her, even though the unnatural chill in the room had dissipated.

"This is all wrong, isn't it? He should be awake by now, shouldn't he?" With each question, her voice escalated, taking on a hysterical pitch. "He shouldn't have died! I'm the one--" She gagged and swallowed, and finally looked at him, her voice a little steadier. "I can't.... Duncan, why?"

She sounded so lost. Duncan knew that feeling, had lived through it himself. "Shhh, Clare, I know." He held her shoulders, trying to still the tremors that shook her whole frame. "You survived."

"But Adam didn't." She buried her head on his shoulder and sobbed.

"He'll wake up." Duncan stroked her hair, not knowing what else to say.

She clung to him like a life preserver. "You've seen this before?"

"No," He said softly, still holding her. "But I've seen...similar." He kissed her head. "It can take a long time." He held her as her sobs faded and the shaking stopped, soothing her with nonsense noises, the way he'd soothed children in his life. "If you could have anything you wanted right now, what would it be?" he asked softly.

"Besides forgetting that any of this ever happened?"

He nodded. "Besides that."

"I -- I want to leave, Duncan. I can't stay here. I can't stay with you. I didn't really love you, you know." She looked back at the body. "Poor Adam," she whispered. "He loves you."

"Clare--"

"I know." She took a deep breath and let it out, wobbling as she stood up. She seemed calmer now, not quite so scared; she looked down at herself and shuddered. "I'm going to take a shower." Clutching the afghan around herself, she stumbled up the stairs, slamming the bathroom door behind her.

Duncan let her go, turning and steeling himself to taking care of Methos. He was concerned; when Mary had bitten into Methos' heart, the healing apparently stopped, leaving the wound on Methos' chest still ragged and gaping. Hesitantly, he picked up the heart and eased it back into the cavity, fighting the sick nausea that clenched his middle, closing the horrible wound with as much gentleness as he could, hoping that with all the pieces together he'd be able to see the healing start up again.

Nothing.

He pulled a sheet out of storage and used it to cover the body. It looked like it was going to be a while before Methos woke up.

* * *

When Clare came out, she felt much more composed. Duncan had found her clothes, and being dressed made her feel a little stronger, much more herself. She involuntarily glanced at Adam's body, sighing gratefully to see that Duncan had covered it with a sheet.

She looked around and noticed Duncan on the floor with someone, talking softly; Clare's heart skipped a beat as she recognized the form. Benny. Duncan had found Benny -- and he was still alive.

Her terror had disappeared under the shower's pulse. She had not been able to save Adam, but maybe here was someone she could help. If she had any useful purpose in all of this, it had to be that. She came down the steps to where Duncan was. "How is he?" she asked softly.

"He's alive, but he doesn't respond."

Clare knelt, touching Carbassa's pallid, cold face. He moaned slightly, turning into her hand, so he wasn't completely catatonic. That was good. "He'll need a lot of help."

Duncan looked at her. "He isn't a bad man, Clare. It wasn't Benny who did those things."

"I know." Clare replied, suddenly so close to tears she had to hold her breath to keep from breaking into a thousand pieces. "She was inside me, too." She had to turn away again and not look at him; she hated how helpless she'd felt, and being next to Duncan like this brought that feeling back. "She _used_ me to kill Adam." Her voice trailed off, tears leaking down her face despite her efforts to control them. "Just like she used him." She looked down at Benny and shook her head. "It was hell, Duncan. I never want to feel anything like that again."

"She's gone now."

"Yes, and Adam is still dead. Benny's alive. I'm alive. You're alive. I think that's the entire roll call, don't you?" She glanced back at the sheet-covered body again, her shoulders slumping. "Will you take care of him?"

"Of course."

"He didn't have a lot of friends in the Watchers. He kept himself apart, mostly, and after that business with Galati.... Her voice trailed off. "When he wakes up, you might want to take him away from here. Find someplace nice."

Duncan put his hand on her shoulder, but Clare brushed him off. She didn't want any sympathy at the moment; she didn't want to start crying again. "I'm sure everyone would understand."

Benny moaned again, and Clare looked at him and came to a decision. "I'm...leaving the Watchers, Duncan. I'd thought about it before, and -- I'm going back to Ottawa, and I'm going to take him with me," she said. "I can help him, I think. It will give me something to do."

Duncan sat back on his heels, stunned. "You want to help him?"

"Sean Burns' clinic was closed down. There's no Immortal who can help him any more, so why not me?" Clare said slowly, then turned to him. "You will arrange it? Get him to Ottawa?"

Duncan nodded, and Clare stood again. She stared down a moment, touching his cheek, reminded at last of his capacity for tenderness, then turned to leave.

But before she could go, she had to do one last thing. She walked slowly over to where Adam's body rested under the sheet and knelt down beside it. "I'm sorry, Adam. " She leaned over and kissed his forehead without drawing back the sheet; she didn't need to see that again. "Thank you for saving me."

She got up before she could start crying again and left Duncan to tend to the dead.  



	14. Chapter 14

_The wedding dress she wore had once been rich, but now was torn, the lace faded, beadwork unraveling, smelling of mold and ancient dust. Cackling, her voice broken and grating, her withered face seemed transparent to the bone. "Break his heart."_

His eyes flew open, and Duncan gasped, startled out of his not-quite doze on the couch. It took a moment to orient himself, the dream had been that real. He forced himself to sit up and look around; it was night again. At some point, he'd lost track of time; he couldn't recall how long it had been since Methos had died.

He went to the bathroom, then padded back through the barge to get himself a drink of water, his eyes constantly straying to the still body on the bed. The first night, he'd wrapped himself in a blanket in a chair next to the bed, afraid he'd miss some sign of Methos' imminent return. He dumped the rest of the water back in the sink and set the glass next to the tap, then trudged back to the chair. He'd thought he might sleep better on the couch, but that had been a forlorn hope. He wasn't going to get any rest no matter where he slept, not until Methos woke up.

There was no sign of movement as he crossed back through the deep shadows, and before he took up his post in the chair, he pressed his palm against Methos' cold flesh, noting -- again -- that there was no warmth. There was no sign or smell of decay, only the fresh scent of laundry detergent on the clothes he'd used to replace Methos' torn and bloody rags. He'd change brands once Methos was alive.

With Clare gone, he had washed away all the visible evidence, cleaned up the wide pool of blood, the splatters on the furniture and walls. Then there had been the ugliness of getting Methos' corpse in the shower and washing away the worst of the blood with a soft cloth and a trickle of water. Clean clothes on the dead body, and then into bed with it, while Duncan crafted a lecture on "Responsibility and Immortality."

How long did it take for organs to regenerate? Surely it couldn't be that long? Duncan briefly indulged himself by imagining just what he would say when Methos awoke. "Thank God" and "you stupid bastard" seemed to be his preferred phrases, but even that game quickly got old.

For long hours after Clare left he had been furious that Methos had nearly gotten himself beheaded, over something that wasn't even his fight. But the longer Methos stayed dead, the less fuel Duncan had for that fire. He pulled the afghan around him and settled back in the chair, and simply waited. He'd been a hunter for much of his life; he had learned patience.

It wasn't supposed to take this long.

He tried to get comfortable in the chair, running through the events of that first day, hoping it would give him a sense of how much time had passed, since everything was becoming a blur now. The gendarmes' had found a body underneath a nearby bridge, and he'd had to answer a few questions about that night, but they'd stayed out of the barge. They weren't really interested in his answers, anyway. Their questions were perfunctory, and they'd left quickly, on the trail of their serial killer -- a trail pointing them to Italy, Duncan hoped. He'd paid a lot of money and spent a lot of time creating false leads while he arranged to send Benny to Canada, probably more than he'd needed to.

It was something to do until Methos revived. He couldn't exactly leave the barge with a dead body on board.

He laid his hand on Methos' neck; Methos was still so cold. His chest had re-knit itself within hours, but after that, there had been no visible signs of healing. His skin was smooth, unblemished, and cold. For perhaps the hundredth time, Duncan laid his head on Methos' chest, listening in vain for the tiniest thread of a heartbeat, only to sit back again, disappointed.

So very cold.

At first he'd been sure it would only be a matter of hours before Methos woke up. Immortals only died by decapitation. Garrik had been burned at the stake, and Nefertiri had survived mummification. So why was it taking so long? He sighed in exasperation. Would it be too much to ask for Methos to do something in the routine manner for once?

Methos' eyes flashed opened, catching the morning light slanting in from the portholes, and Duncan jerked in surprise. Relief flooded him, and he sat down next to Methos on the bed.

Methos arched back, his mouth gaping in an agonized gasp for air, his skin suddenly flushed. His hands grasped at any surface, clutching Duncan's arms hard enough to bruise, and he choked, gasped again, and cried out, doubling up, curling into a ball.

"Easy!" Duncan said, his voice rough and hoarse. "I'm here." He rubbed Methos' chest, trying to sooth and reassure, but uncertain whether Methos was even conscious of his presence. "I'm not leaving." He could feel an erratic, pounding pulse under his fingers as Methos' newly-regenerated heart tried to push cold, sluggish blood through the too-long-dead body. A slight warmth rose under Duncan's palms. "It'll be over soon," he whispered as Methos flailed against him, his muscles contracting, arms and legs kicking spasmodically. "Just a little bit more."

At last the worst seemed over, and Methos lay limp and gasping, sweat pouring off him even as he shivered so hard his teeth clattered together. "Welcome back," Duncan whispered, pushing the hair out of Methos' face. "Don't ever do that again."

Another shudder swept through Methos' body, and Duncan snatched at the duvet, pulling it over them both, using his own body heat to help warm Methos. "That's better, isn't it?"

Methos nodded once and swallowed. "I take it... your...old f.f.f.friend is...gone?" he asked, his teeth chattering so that the words stumbled out.

In his mind, Duncan could still hear that last scream. For a moment he held his breath, caught between horror and relief. At some point, lying there in the dark, he'd almost lost faith, almost stopped believing that Methos would survive. His anger had faded then, and Duncan had no longer cared what had happened, as long as Methos came back.

And Methos' first words were so familiar and reassuring -- and so different from the long, agonizing scream he remembered -- that for a moment, Duncan simply couldn't answer. He simply leaned in and kissed Methos' neck.

"Mac?" Methos asked, as Duncan continued to hold him. "She's gone?"

"Yes, she's gone. They're all gone." Duncan pulled back and settled for letting his palm gently stroke over Methos shoulder.

"How long...?"

"Days." Duncan replied, finally forcing his hands still. "I thought...." No good. He needed to touch Methos still, and laced Methos' hand with his own. "I wasn't sure if you were coming back. She almost killed you, you know."

Methos jerked back and stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"After...she tore out your heart, she grabbed a sword. She was going to take your head." The words came out more belligerently than he had intended. Wasn't he supposed to be nice to Methos for a bit? Ply him with food and alcohol before having this discussion? Hadn't he gotten past his own anger?

Not all of it, it seemed.

"Fuck." Methos groaned, shivered again, stretched, and leaned heavily back against Duncan, as if all his energy had been sapped. "She was supposed to have disappeared after fulfilling the -- whatever it was."

"So, you're an expert on curses now?"

Methos shot him a dirty look, clutching the duvet close under his chin. "I have been around a while, you know."

"So why didn't you say something sooner? Why didn't you tell me what you had planned?" The anger resurfaced, not as easily conquered as he thought. Duncan swallowed, forcing the accusations out of his tone.

"I...I'm still here, aren't I?" Methos struggled to sit up, suddenly on the attack. "What does it matter if I told you, or not? It worked out. She didn't kill me."

"She was going to. And she ripped out your heart!"

"That doesn't count."

"It certainly seemed to when you were screaming."

They glared at each other, and then Methos seemed to...wilt. "I don't need this," he muttered. "If I was in so much danger, why is my head still attached to my body?"

"Clare stopped her," Duncan said softly, clenching his hands into fists and deliberately releasing them again. There wasn't any need to get angry; he could keep his temper under control.

"What?"

"Clare stopped her." Duncan took a deep breath and steadied himself. He was walking an emotional tightrope, and it would be easy to slip and fall. "I was lying against the wall with my damned back broken, not even able to crawl across the floor...unable to do anything but watch...and Clare stopped her."

"How? Why?" Methos turned curious on him, anger draining away. "Is she still here? Can I-- "

Duncan shook his head. "She's gone. She decided to head home to Ottawa." He shifted uncomfortably, and looked away towards the porthole. "Not that I could blame her." He fell into silence, the only sounds those of tourist boats from the river and traffic from the street above.

The sunlight pouring into the barge seemed so stupidly cheerful. It all seemed too surreal, Methos sitting up in his bed, gory residue all cleared away, the major players in their little drama all departed to pick up their lives.

At least those that had survived. And Methos almost hadn't. His voice hardened as he turned to look back at Methos. "Don't you ever, ever pull another stunt like that, you hear me?"

* * *

Oh, this was where he'd come in, wasn't it? With Mac acting like he could make all of Methos' decisions for him?

"Pot. Kettle. Black." Methos glared back at him, but just got that stubborn, angry look in response. Perhaps a different tack was in order.

"Duncan," he said gently, "Let it go. It's not your fault. You didn't make Mary do anything. It was her own choice." Duncan's jaw clenched, and before he could say anything, Methos pressed on. "Just like...what happened...was also mine."

"It wasn't your responsibility," Duncan snapped at him.

"And it was yours, I suppose? Because a couple of hundred years ago you killed someone who had been butchering your people? And that butcher was someone she loved?" Methos lifted his chin defiantly. The man could be so stubborn sometimes.

"What I did....You didn't have to let her kill you." Duncan glared at him resolutely, his jaw firm with tension.

"Did you have a better plan?" Methos scoffed. "If so, why didn't you just shout it out? I was certainly open to suggestions."

"I tried. You were just too busy sacrificing yourself to hear it."

"So what was your plan, hmmm? I'm anxious to hear it."

"I told her to kill me instead." At least Mac had the decency to look uncomfortable when he said it.

"Oh, that was brilliant. Fat lot of good that would have done. You dead, me dead, both of us dead and probably losing our heads -- at least my way, it eventually worked out."

"She nearly took your head!"

"But she didn't take it, did she?." Methos lounged back against the bed, trying his hardest to look self-confident, though his heart was beating like a triphammer at how close to death he had come. Nothing like seat of your pants planning, that was certain. Not good, not good at all that he hadn't seen that one coming. "I know what I'm doing, MacLeod. I'm not your student. I can make my own decisions, including losing my head if I chose."

"You can't predict everything!" Mac spat out the words. "Being old doesn't make you invulnerable."

"But it does make me very difficult to get rid of," Methos softened his voice, a puzzle piece clicking into place. Duncan had already been forced to take one friend's -- lover's? -- Quickening with Jacob Galati, and he had almost been forced to take Methos', as well. No wonder he was so angry. "This is me, remember? I like to survive." This conversation wasn't about control; it was about fear. "Can I say the same thing about you?"

Mac drew up short. "What's that suppose to mean?"

"Can you promise me that you mean to stop doing anything like that for me, or Amanda, or anyone else who comes down the line?"

Duncan looked even more uncomfortable. "That's different."

"What do you mean, different? You want me to watch you throw your life away, is that it? You get to sacrifice yourself, and I'm supposed to let you." Methos glared at him. "That's not going to happen any time soon. If I can find a way to keep you from killing yourself, I will do it, MacLeod. And you better get used to that."

"Fine!" Duncan growled. "I save you, you save me, is that it?"

"Yeah, that's it." Methos snorted. "Otherwise I want your promise that you'll stop risking your head to save people--"

"I can't promise you that."

"Then don't ask the same of me." Moments passed as they glared at each other, Methos growing more disturbed the longer he had to contemplate what he'd done. He'd nearly gotten himself killed, and for what?

For Mac, of course. He took a deep breath. He really didn't want to deal with what that meant, and he certainly didn't want to fight about it. "I know you were worried, but I'm still here. And Clare and Benny survived, as well."

Duncan's shoulders sagged, and Methos sat up straighter. "They're okay, aren't they?"

"Clare seemed to be handling it okay, but Benny...he's going to need some time." Duncan rubbed a slightly trembling hand across his forehead. "I thought she'd had enough of Immortals to last her a lifetime, but she thought she could help Benny. He's on his way to join her. She's setting up a clinic--"

Methos could see the tension around his eyes. Anger and fear had become guilt, and Methos knew what that meant. "Like Sean Burns," he said quietly.

"Something like that."

"Then it's good that he's with Clare. Let it go, Duncan."

"I can't let it go," Mac whispered, shaking his head. "She hurt people I care about and killed who-knows-how-many others, and she almost killed you. How can I just let it go?"

"You just do." It was good advice. He'd have to let it go, as well. Methos caught Mac's anguished gaze and smiled, trying to take some of the sting out of his words. "You don't have to like it, but it has to be done. There are things in each of our pasts that we wish hadn't happened. We learn to live with that."

"How?"

"You just live." He sagged back against the pillows, suddenly drained. "I feel like an empty potato sack."

"I've got something to help with that." Clearly as willing as Methos to let go of an uncomfortable conversation, Duncan slipped out from under the covers, padded over to the bar fridge, and grabbed a bottle of sports drink. "It doesn't taste so great, but it should help with the dehydration."

The change of subject seemed to change the emotional tone between them, easing some of the strain. Duncan sat on the edge of the bed as Methos drained the bottle dry; it was nice to have Duncan take care of him. It was almost an apology. "How about something with a little less salt?"

That was almost acceptance.

Duncan laughed, taking it as the distraction Methos intended, and got off the bed. "Be right back." When he returned, he carried a bottle of apple juice and a glass. "It's not beer, but I think it'll do." He poured a glass and tried to hand it to Methos.

"You first," he instructed. "You look like hell."

"That's okay," Mac insisted, sitting back down on the bed. "If you've had enough to drink, I can fix some soup. Or maybe you'd like something more substantial? Pasta? Oh, wait." He glanced out the window, as if only now realizing it was morning. "How about some breakfast?"

"Later," Methos said. "I want a shower first." He looked Mac over carefully, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the tautness in his face, the way he didn't seem focused, and cursed silently to himself. He wasn't the only one who needed to be taken care of. Duncan was a wreck. "Mac, drink the juice. You need it."

Mac's hand went to his face, where he scratched what looked like a week's worth of beard growth, then he combed his fingers through his tangled hair. "I just need to clean up some, that's all."

"Have you been holding a bedside vigil all this time?" Methos asked. "What, did you just sit and watch me? That must've been fascinating. I wasn't going anywhere."

"I don't know. I just kept expecting you...to wake up. And I wanted to be there when you did." One broad hand gently cupped Methos' chin, a thumb rubbing softly along the jaw line.

Quiet desire burned along his skin as Mac touched him. Not passion, exactly, or lust, just a simple need to be touched. Methos wanted to press into it, but instead, he pulled himself back. He couldn't do this now, not yet, anyway. Not physically, not emotionally, and he wasn't sure if Mac was ready to deal with intimacy either. There was simply so much unsettled between them.

The flicker of interest he'd seen in Mac's eyes faded, his hand dropping to his side. "I'll be back in a bit."

Well, he could give in a little, Methos supposed. "I'm not going anywhere." It couldn't really hurt, could it? And anyway, he was a little tired. Well, very tired, actually. "I'll be here when you get back. Now, go." Methos shooed Duncan off the bed and toward the bathroom door. He pretended not to notice when Mac stopped moving away from him and started watching him. Instead, he pulled up the duvet, closing his eyes for just a moment's rest.

* * *

As Duncan watched, Methos slipped from relaxation into sleep, his breathing deep and slow. Mac stood by the stairs for at least a minute, noting the slow, sure heartbeat minutely reflected in the vein throbbing at the base of Methos' neck.

Methos looked thin, his pale skin almost transparent, blue-gray smudges darkening the semi-circles under his eyes. Such a massive healing was almost a form of self-cannibalism, using up the body's mass and strength to rebuild what had been lost. It would be days before he had his strength back.

Days. Whatever had happened between them, they'd have time to discuss it -- or ignore it, if they needed to, give themselves some time to adapt. He stretched, feeling the thrumming tension he'd been holding in give way to the residual ache of exhaustion. He probably needed some sleep as well, along with food, clean clothes, and a shower. He forced himself away from his lookout post, grabbing a towel off the linen shelf on his way to the bathroom and throwing it onto the closed lid of the toilet.

The shower unknotted a dozen muscles, and the warm water beating against his back felt like a miracle. He shaved in the shower, not needing a mirror after four hundred years of scraping whiskers off of the same surface. The clean feel of soap on his skin was invigorating. It didn't wash away the memories, but it helped a little with perspective.

He was angry because he cared. It was the same reason he'd felt so lost when Methos hadn't revived.

He thought about it while he washed. He'd withdrawn into himself when Darius died, had even picked fights with complete strangers just so he could have an outlet for his anger. Tessa's death had been worse, but then he'd opened up the dojo and started a new life. Perhaps it was because she was mortal, and he had always known he would lose her, just not like that, not so soon.

And he'd withdrawn after Jacob's death, too. If Methos hadn't contacted him, how long would they have remained apart?

He turned off the shower and dried off, troubled at the direction of his thoughts. Centuries might have passed before they ran into one another again, and anything could happen. Oh, he was as good with a sword as just about anyone, but he could not reconcile himself to losing people -- lovers, friends -- who were supposed to live forever.

And he wanted Methos to live. Duncan knew that someday he'd die, but he didn't want to even think about the possibility of Methos' death.

The scream echoed in his mind once again, bringing with it a surge of anger. But this time, Duncan mastered it, his hands tight around the towel, his eyes closed, remembering the sound of Methos' voice yelling at him moments ago. Over the top of that terrible scream, he heard Methos' normal, sarcastic drawl repeating, "Pot, kettle, black." Duncan smiled slightly, opening his eyes.

Stupid, really, to spend his energy being angry with Methos when he should spend his time rebuilding their friendship. He couldn't let fear get the best of him.

Methos had snuggled deep into the covers, leaving only the dark top of his head visible as Duncan quietly searched for something to wear, pulling on sweats and a comfortable old T-shirt.

The urge to just sit and watch the man who had sacrificed his heart and his life to a cause that was not his own was still strong -- and irrational. It would probably have amused and irritated Methos to know he was watched. Of course, the other Immortal was exasperation itself, but that thought no longer packed such an intense emotional punch. If anything, his testiness was comforting; it meant Methos cared. So whether or not they solved all of their problems today didn't really matter. What mattered was that they were both in this for the long haul.

Maybe an eternity -- provided that Methos didn't develop any more heroic tendencies. One idealist in a relationship was enough.

Duncan moved quietly in the galley, fixing a cold breakfast. When it was ready, Duncan turned on the coffee and waited for Methos to wake up.

* * *

The scent teased Methos awake, and if a sound could be ambrosia, then water burbling out of a coffee-maker had to be it. As desperately as he wanted to sleep, the smell of strong French roast was too much to ignore. He pulled the duvet away from his head, peeking out into the late morning sunshine warming the barge. The mattress sank next to him, and wordlessly Mac handed him a cup. A few sips and Methos lay back, smiling contentedly. "I have to hand it to you, Highlander. You do know how to make coffee."

Duncan snorted and drank from his own cup. "I've seen what you drink. That's not saying much."

"Hey, I stopped boiling it, didn't I?"

"And replaced it with instant. You'd think in five thousand years you would have learned how to brew coffee."

"And that in four hundred years you'd have given up eating eels for breakfast. It's disgusting."

Duncan rolled his eyes, and Methos grinned unrepentantly. A comfortable silence stretched between them as each man sipped his coffee.

Feeling more himself, Methos nudged at Mac. "My turn to shower, all right?"

"Sure. Breakfast can wait."

Methos sat up, starting to stand, but deciding to rest for a minute when his legs felt a little shaky. Breakfast was probably a good idea; he'd cut his shower short. "Back in a second."

As nice as it would have been to linger -- Mac's instant water heater meant never running out of hot water -- Methos had to make the shower brief and functional. His legs were trembling by the time he finished, and he had to steady himself by hanging onto the sink, the wall. He imagined himself collapsing and Mac having to help him out of the shower; not exactly the image he wanted to present.As he brushed his teeth with one of the spares Duncan kept in the medicine chest, he was shaking. Maybe he should have eaten first; his body seemed to have run through all its energy reserves in a very short time.

He wrapped a towel around himself and decided he'd need to borrow more clothes from Mac; the limp, sweat-soaked ones he'd left on the floor had lost their appeal. He ended up pitching them into the dirty laundry hamper on his way out the bathroom door.

As soon as he stepped through the door, he felt Mac's gaze on him and was uncomfortably aware of an undercurrent of sexual appraisal in it. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of, it was just...odd. The genie was out of the bottle, and Methos wasn't sure he liked it. "Clothes?" he asked cautiously.

"Take what you want." Duncan nodded toward the sleeping area. "Sweats are in the bottom drawer of the chest."

"Thanks." He took a deep breath and pushed off from the doorframe, knowing he still looked shaky. Mac got up to follow him, but Methos gave him a dark, warning look, and Duncan sank back on the couch. Duncan watched him as he dressed, which made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. He didn't need a keeper, and he wasn't sure he wanted a full-time lover.

He wasn't sure of anything at all.

They sat on opposite sides of the room practically, Duncan on the couch, Methos on a chair, and chatted about inconsequential things. Methos tried not to notice that Duncan's eyes rested on him often, and they kept falling into awkward silences.

It felt so wrong, so awkward, by the time they finished eating that Methos wanted to spit, just so he could get the bad taste out of his mouth.

But whose fault was that, he wondered? Mac was keeping his distance because Methos let him know that was what he wanted. Duncan wouldn't push it. He didnít go where he wasn't wanted.

But Mac was wanted. Desperately, madly, and foolishly wanted by a man who was old enough to know better.

Screw it, Methos thought. He was also old enough to change his mind.

He stood up carefully, his energy restored by the food, and poured himself another cup of coffee. But he didn't return to the chair; instead, he sat down on the couch next to Mac, who looked surprised. Methos smiled and sipped his coffee. It was good to keep them guessing. "I was thinking," he said, setting his cup on the table and leaning back against Duncan, who, after a moment of hesitation, loosely wrapped an arm around him. "Maybe we should go to England for a bit."

"We? Why?" Mac's arm tightened around him, and Methos let himself rest in its warmth, wondering why he'd been avoiding it.

"I thought we could go visit where the Inn was. Say goodbye to Mary, something like that."

"I thought you were a pragmatist."

"I am." Methos twisted to look at Duncan. "But I seem to have gotten involved with a romantic."

Mac just looked at him for a minute before responding. "Those relationships never work." Mac responded solemnly, an odd look in his eyes.

Methos smiled and looked down at his hands, a new kind of awkwardness stealing between them in the silence.

"It was good, wasn't it?" Duncan finally added, a small hint of a smile in his tone.

Methos swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Yeah, it was."

"It wasn't what I expected." Mac rubbed the back of his thumb across his forehead. "I'm still not sure what's going to happen, or what I want to happen. I do know that I watched you die, and I didn't like it. I really...I don't like thinking about you dying."

"I'm not wild about the idea myself. So let's not, okay? Let's...." Methos closed his eyes, suddenly dizzy, overwhelmed by how much he wanted this. "Let's have another cup of coffee."

"In a minute."

Methos looked up and breathed in slowly and a bit nervously as Duncan leaned in closer. It was his last chance to recognize the insanity of this, and put a stop to it. Duncan MacLeod was a dangerous, dangerous man to fall in love with. He let his eyes fall closed again as those soft lips met his. Gentle, yes, but the spark of desire kindled quickly. A small hum -- almost a purr -- welled up within him, silenced only when Duncan's tongue slipped in between his lips. Methos had to force himself to draw back, and when he did, the sound finally escaped. It came out as a sigh of contentment, rather than a purr, and he was grateful for that. Purring would be embarrassing.

Methos licked his lips, tried to reinstate his sanity. "We shouldn't do this."

Duncan smiled patiently before draining Methos' coffee cup. "Why not? We did before."

"Yeah, but before I was just winging it. And look where it got us." Methos took a deep breath and calmed himself. "It's a bad idea. It was a bad idea then, and it's a bad idea now."

"It's not."

"It's always a bad idea. Complicates things."

"So I've heard." Duncan slid his hand around Methos' neck, and Methos discovered how much he craved Mac's touch. "I thought we might want to give it a shot anyway. At least for a while."

"Don't--" Methos had to catch his breath before he could go on, his body crying at him to follow Duncan's lead. "Don't say I didn't tell you when things go wrong." Don't rip my heart out again.

"I won't." And at that, Duncan leaned over and kissed him again. And this time, Methos gave in to his body's demands.

This time, it felt right.


	15. Epilogue

At least the rain had let up. Methos felt like he'd been driving forever, though he knew it had only been a few hours since they'd left Durham. Breakfast at The Gables seemed far too long ago, and the 'bed' part of bed and breakfast was a distant memory. It couldn't be much further.

They had taken their time on this trip, stopping over in London for a few days, then a little sightseeing in the countryside; it was always awkward and yet comforting to see places you'd been years ago. And in between sights they had discovered each other's quirks and habits, when to leave each other alone, and when to be together. To say it had been pleasant was putting it mildly.

But the closer they got to Scotland, the quieter and more introspective Duncan became, which is how Methos had ended up driving. Duncan had only spoken in single syllables since they'd crossed into Scotland, spending most of his time staring out the window into the rain.

But that was over now, and the sun had decided to pay them a visit. Methos pulled into the small village, winding through cobblestone streets and stopping at a local pub. He pushed in the emergency brake to keep the rented Jaguar from rolling down the steep street and turned to his companion. "Come on, Mac. I'm buying."

"There's a first," Mac replied with a small smile before lapsing into pensive silence again.

Well, at least he was trying. He'd spoken a complete sentence that time.

Duncan followed him through the old wooden door into the shadowed, smoky confines of the pub. It was nearly empty, and they slid into a booth, ordering a sandwich and a pint of stout from the matronly waitress.

Since Methos had run out of conversation, only the occasional request for malt vinegar punctuated the Silence. Duncan spent most of the time watching out the window. "It's so different," he finally said, actually eating some of the chips he'd drenched in vinegar. "Mary's father's inn was the only place for miles around, the rest of the area was woods," he sighed, pushing his half-eaten sandwich away.

As if waiting for a signal, the waitress showed up, her round face pink with exertion. "Anything else I can get you lads?"

Methos smiled up at her. "The food was wonderful, thank you." He swiveled around so he could face her. "I was wondering if you could help me." He nodded at Duncan. "We're looking for a site that's supposed to be near here." Methos cocked his head to read her nametag, moving forward a little and dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper. "Molly, have you ever heard a story of a young woman whose lover is killed and who vows revenge, then dies, but comes back as a ghost to hunt down her lover's killer?"

Duncan closed his eyes and shook his head, as if denying any interest in the melodrama.

"Oh, you mean the Burning Inn?" Her face lit up in child-like delight, and she immediately slid into the booth next to Duncan, forcing him to scoot a little closer to the wall. "You've heard the story, have you?" She didn't wait for confirmation, just pressed on, eager to tell the tale. "It's a true story, no matter they've written songs about it! My grandmother told me her grandmother actually knew the girl who died. Mary, her name was. Such a sad story. The songs say the killer was a demon, but my grandma said t'was a highlander out for revenge." Molly smiled brightly. "Who knows, sounds better with the demon, I think. T'was a long time ago."

"Is there a gravesite, or any records or proof of what happened?" Methos asked, while Duncan watched them.

"'Fraid not," she shook her head. "If there were, you can be sure the town council would've designated it a tourist site," she laughed. "Some reporters from the New Age Enquirer showed up about a year ago, asking the same things. They heard about the accidents that had happened when they built the new town hall and tried to blame the legend for 'em. The buildin's supposed to be where the original inn used to stand."

"Really?" Methos asked.

"Oh, aye. Melinda, the mayor's wife, appointed herself the town's head gardener, but when she couldn't get any blooms on the bushes at the Town hall, she got all defensive about it and blamed it on the Ghost of the Burning Inn." She leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. "She swears the bushes she planted won't bloom there until the ghost is exorcised. She even had a priest there once to do some folderol ceremony." She laughed. "Didn't work, though. Damn rosebush grows like a weed, but has never produced a single flower."

Methos looked over to Duncan, but his gaze was firmly fixed on his beer. Pulling out his wallet. Methos pushed a few extra pounds at the friendly woman, then he picked up her plump hand and kissed it. "You are a fount of information, Molly. Bless you. We are forever in your debt."

"We are forever in your debt?" Duncan said under his breath as they stepped out into the spring sunshine. "You are incorrigible."

"You don't get to be five thousand years old by being corrigible," Methos said, turning his face to the sun. "It's a completely undesirable state." Methos stepped off the sidewalk, and Duncan followed, hurrying to keep up as Methos jaywalked, then crossed into what appeared to be the town square.

"Where are we going?" Duncan asked.

Ignoring him, Methos lengthened his strides, leading them through several carefully tended flower gardens and past a central water fountain to the far edge, stopping across the street from a three-story brick building with a small cupola on the top.

The new town hall, the site of the Burning Inn.

Duncan stuck his hands in his pockets and simply looked at it. "It's been over 250 years, Methos. The inn's gone. What am I supposed to do?"

"You tell me." Methos gazed steadily into Duncan's eyes. "You know what this is about. You know why we're here."

Duncan turned his shoulders away and took a deep breath, pressing his lips together as he thought. Then he nodded. "Okay," he said softly. "Okay."

Crossing the street carefully, Methos let Duncan get in front a ways, and waited patiently while Duncan stood in looking at the building, his gaze distant and unfocused, lost in his own thoughts.

And the longer it took, the more Methos wondered if he'd pushed too much. This had been a bad idea, he finally decided. All he had done was keep the memories alive, when what they should have concentrated on was forgetting them.

Duncan moved up the terraced steps toward the building's entrance, stopped on the third step up, then turned, walking quickly down a side path; Methos noticed a small wooden sign that said 'gardens' as he ran to catch up.

Mac was squatting down, examining the bush at the base of a lattice-work arch. Methos couldn't see anything where Mac was looking; He leaned down and took Mac's arm.

Duncan pulled away from him and reached into the carefully manicured greenery lining the walk, searching through all of the plants.

"Mac--" Methos prodded. "I don't think you'll find what you're looking for."

With a sigh, Duncan nodded, still gazing down at the plants. " I guess I hoped I'd see roses."

"It would be nice if it was all neat and tidy like that, wouldn't it? Some magical bloom to signify that all was right with the world," Methos straightened and pulled his coat in tighter around him. The rain was going to pick up again soon. "Too bad there are no fairy tale endings for life."

"Yeah." Duncan looked at him sheepishly. "It would be nice to know it was over."

"It is over, Mac. She's gone. Now you have to let it go."

Duncan stood, letting the leaves of the barren rosebush slide through his fingers. "I know," he said, turning to look at Methos, "I did feel it, when we drove into town. That it all began here, as though my hate didn't really die, it just found a new way to wreak havoc." He pulled Methos in close, speaking softly into his ear. "But I can't control what happened with Mary, only with myself. Whatever happened for her, Methos, for me it ends here." He turned, keeping his arm draped around Methos' shoulders, and they walked back to their car, their steps evenly matched.


End file.
